


The Ring Around Her Neck

by Magfreak



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 10:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10094426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magfreak/pseuds/Magfreak
Summary: What if Sybil gave Tom a different answer in York? An alternative series two in which Tom and Sybil are secretly married.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I originally posted on tumblr from a prompt: In canon setting, Sybil and Tom secretly get married during the war and are trying to arrange for some alone time! (Doesn't have to be smut but.. you know.. wouldn't hate you for it…) (:
> 
> I originally wrote it as a one shot, but eventually went back and completed it. Given how it started, though, there were a lot of holes in the first chapter that I didn't fill in until later. In order to understand it, here is the background: When Tom proposes in York, Sybil asks him to give her the time she will be away to think about it. Halfway through, she writes to him and says yes. He asks for a weekend off, she takes a weekend leave from the college and they do it—get married and, you know, sex ;) But they agree that she needs work experience as a nurse if they are going to make it without her family's help, so they decide that when she is done with her training, she will go back to Downton as if nothing has happened and they will keep their marriage a secret so Sybil can be a nurse at Downton Hospital. Their plan is to reveal all once the war is over. This starts her second week back, and at this point, their only night alone was their wedding night.

For Sybil, the first week working in the hospital was such a rush, that she barely had time to think about the fact that she was sleeping alone in her childhood bedroom and not next to her husband. Truth be told, there was little time to sleep at all.

By the second week, though, she'd learned the ropes. Some of the procedures had become routine and she'd even made some friends among the staff who, at first, had been too intimidated by her title to even approach her. But the easier the work got, the less she had to think about what she was doing, the easier it was for her mind to wander back to _that_ night.

For their wedding, such as it was, she'd worn the dress that Edith and Mary had insisted she take to York with her.

_You must have something decent_ , Edith had said. _Suppose you're invited to dinner._

_I know this is hard for you to grasp_ , Sybil had responded, _but I'm not there to go out to dinner. I'm there to learn._

_Take one, just in case_ , Mary had said, settling the matter.

Sybil had been glad for it, for the opportunity to dress up for him. He was in his best suit. And that night, they shed the clothes that both acknowledged were a sign of what separated them and joined as husband and wife, nothing between them, becoming in the act better versions of themselves.

Sybil's roommate in York had explained the "mechanics" of it, with special emphasis on what needed to be done to prevent a pregnancy—most helpful advice when they decided after their first time, that keeping things secret would be best for the time being. But for the emotions that came with it. Well, nothing could have prepared either Sybil or Tom for it. Sybil thought she'd feel vulnerable, but in truth she found it empowering. They both did. And now that they were back at Downton, all she wanted was to be with him again.

There was frustration, Sybil had come to learn. And there was FRUSTRATION.

Tom was as eager as she to make love again, but he couldn't help but find her apparently insatiable desire adorable. In the motor on the side of the road to and from the hospital and in stolen moments in the garage and empty hallways at the house, he teased her mercilessly with his kisses and touches that promised more. But she needed release or it was possible she might explode. Whenever she tried to explain as much to him, he would smile and say, "Now, you know what it's been like for me since I met you."

Her second Saturday evening on duty—her third overnight shift—was the first quiet night at the hospital. No new patients had come in that day. She had helped Dr. Clarkson make his rounds, folded the blankets brought in from the laundry, helped the head nurse restock the medicine cabinets in each wing. By 2 a.m. there was little left for Sybil to do, but sit and wait for either morning to arrive or a medical emergency to happen.

She was at the nurses' station reading a medical text when Dr. Clarkson saw her on his way out.

"Nurse Crawley, I didn't realize you were still here."

"I'm on until 6 a.m., but it's been quiet tonight."

Dr. Clarkson smiled. "You'll find in the medical profession these moments are to be treasured. Hospital work is either feast or famine … in a matter of speaking."

"Well, have a good night," she said, turning back to her book.

He turned to go but stopped when he saw the head nurse coming around the desk. "Nurse Roberts, I wonder if we can allow Nurse Crawley to head home early. I think we have things well in hand."

"Oh, please," Sybil interjected. "I don't want to be given special treatment. I can do the full shift."

Nurse Roberts smiled. "You've more than proven yourself Nurse Crawley. Get some sleep and come back refreshed for your next shift. We've had a telegram this evening about more patients on their way. We'll need you at full strength on Monday."

Sybil stood tentatively. "Only if you're sure."

"Go on!" Nurse Roberts insisted.

Sybil laughed and went to get her coat and hat. She stepped outside with a grin, thinking of what she—and her as yet unsuspecting husband—could do with this free gift of time from the universe. Her smile was tempered somewhat when she saw Dr. Clarkson standing outside, as if waiting for her.

"Given the hour, I should walk you back to the house," he said as she came down the steps.

"It's quite all right Dr. Clarkson. I know my way well."

"I've had a hard enough time from your father having you at the hospital. I can't imagine what he'll say if he knew I let you walk back unaccompanied at this time."

Sybil sighed. There was no getting out of it.

As it was, Sybil enjoyed the walk and the discussion. Dr. Clarkson, who had been thoroughly impressed by how well she'd done her first week and her eagerness to learn more, recommended books on medicine and healing, including the writings of Florence Nightingale, which he thought would be of special interest to Sybil, whom he knew to be a supporter of women's rights. His advice revealed him to be an observant and understanding man. She said as much to him. He smiled and said it came with the territory of being a doctor. He added that he hoped she would consider continuing in the profession after the war and that he would be on her side and of help with her parents when that time came. That Dr. Clarkson, a man who had known her since her birth, could be her mentor and ally was not something Sybil had ever considered, but she was grateful nonetheless.

As nice as he had been, though, when they arrived at the gates, she stopped, hoping against hope that he would not insist on seeing her to the door. Thankfully, he didn't. Sybil stood there watching him go, and once he was out of sight, she ran as fast as her feet would take her to the chauffeur's cottage.

She opened the door quietly, took off her coat, hat and shoes and tiptoed into Tom's bedroom. He was deep asleep, snoring slightly. As it had been a warm night, he'd pushed his blanket down to the foot of the bed. He was wearing only his long johns, so when Sybil sat down on the bed, she ran her hand over his exposed chest, no longer as anxious as she'd been this past week. Because it wasn't just the act that she had been missing but the intimacy.

She smiled as he sighed in his sleep, then stood again and made quick work of removing her clothing. A year ago, she would never have imagined being so cavalier about her own nakedness, but in one night together with him she had lost all her inhibitions.

She slipped into the bed and began running her hands over him again, smiling as he squirmed under her touch.

_Is he dreaming about me?_ She wondered.

Suddenly and without warning, he turned toward her quickly so he was practically on top of her and started kissing her passionately. Sybil gave into the kiss eagerly. Tom's hand moved along her back down to her thigh, pulling her closer. She curled her leg around him and could feel him hardening against her. The sensation caused her to moan, which was what finally alerted Tom that this was not just a very pleasant dream. He pulled away, looking around, eyes blinking awake and a bit disoriented. When his eyes finally landed on hers again, they widened in shock.

"What are you doing here? How did you get in? What time is it?" He asked sitting up.

"I finished my shift early. I let myself in. It's almost three in the morning, which means we have a good hour before I have to get back to the house. Do you really want to spend it asking me questions?"

Tom smiled and laid back down, bringing her with him into a long, deep kiss. "God, I've missed you."

She sighed. "Me too."

She was about to kiss him again, when he stopped her.

"It won't always be like this, you know," he whispered.

"I know. But it's us, so it's kind of perfect, in its own way."

He looked down to her neck, and the thin gold chain that adorned it. He sat up again and asked her to turn over, which she did with a small smile. Tom unhooked the chain and slipped off the small ring it held. Sybil turned over again and held out her left hand so he could slip it on.

"When we are together," he said, "it should always be as husband and wife."

"Which we are."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I explained in the first chapter note, this story initially came from a prompt sent me on tumblr. 
> 
> To see all of the moments leading up to where the action of the first chapter begins, each chapter will begin with a flashback that is set off in italics. The first chapter started the first week of Sybil's return from her nursing training in York. This chapter flashes back to Sybil's perspective immediately after the proposal (which you can assume happened as it happened on the show), then the action jumps forward to three months after Sybil's return from York which is when episode two of series two takes place. The timeline will follow the action of the show and should make sense as the story goes along, but I will mark month and year before each section, just in case.
> 
> I mention "French letters" here, which was what British soldiers called condoms. I don't know if that term was in use during WWI, but after an admittedly brief internet search, I couldn't find the colloquial word for condom from that era with any certainty.
> 
> Lastly, for those of you who don't remember in episode two, the dinner that Sybil attends at her mother's insistence is Richard Carlisle's first dinner at Downton and the dinner during which Carson has a minor heart attack and Sybil momentarily steps in to help him. I don't include those scenes here, but you can assume that they happened in this story as they happened on the show. If you don't remember and don't want to go back and watch, no big deal, not really necessary to understand this story, but just know that the family meets Richard Carlise and Carson gets sick in the middle of serving dinner and Sybil helps him.

 

**November 1916**

_"I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."_

_In the quiet of her small dormitory room, Sybil says the phrase aloud to herself over and over in an effort to try to discern its meaning._

_"I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."_

_She tries to imagine its impact if_ she _had said it to someone. If she had said it to_ him _._

What would it feel like to say the words? _She thinks to herself._

_"I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."_

What would it feel like to say the words and mean them?

_Sybil has no doubt that Branson meant them. She can still feel the lingering intensity of his eyes, the desire and longing in his voice, hours after his declaration. His proposal. Proposal. That's what it was, wasn't it? A proposal of marriage. He asked her to marry him, not by using those exact words—will you marry me—but by telling her that he'd give her a happy life. Not even that, actually. He only promised her that he'd comit himself to a lifetime trying. And yet there was so much in that promise. There was no doubting his sincerity or his love._

_She is lying back on her bed, still in her coat. When she walked into the empty room (her assigned roommate was not to arrive until the next day), she had dropped the suitcases at the door and thrown herself back on the bed without bothering with anything else. It wasn't as comfortable as her own at Downton, but that hardly mattered. Nothing mattered now, not when those words had been spoken to her, by the person who most easily stirred her passions without ever having to try._

_"I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."_

_She panicked. She tried to suggest to him that he not vocalize what they both knew and had been dancing around for months. She tried to deflect the offer. She tried to make light of things. What was she supposed to say, after all? What did he expect?_

_Sybil treasured his friendship and understood its nature well enough to know how important it was to keep it secret from her family, even her sisters, who loved her so well but who would never comprehend why he meant so much to her. But despite having made that concession in her heart, she had not allowed herself to think beyond the boundaries of that friendship. At least, that had been her intent._

_She acknowledges now, though, that those boundaries were left behind long ago. His admission of love did not surprise her, not really. She knows how he feels, just as she is sure he knows how she feels. Branson is impetuous and determined, but he is also clever, observant and thoughtful above all things. She knows this was not a step he would have taken had he not been confident in the belief that deep down she returned his feelings._

_Sybil feels a tear escape her eye and slowly roll down the side of her face. She doesn't bother wiping it away_

_He is right, of course. She does return his feelings. And now that his have been laid out so selflessly at her feet, she must confront this truth. She loves Branson. She loves_ Tom _Branson, despite any previous pretense to the contrary._

_She did not give him an answer. She only told him, when he suggested that his departure was a necessary consequence of her refusal, that he not go. Sybil might have said that she needed him to wait so she could consider whether she returned his feelings, but it would have been a falsehood. She already did. But having given him nothing but a plea that he stay, as he walked away, perhaps that is what he believed she had asked for, time to learn to love him back. In truth, though, all she wanted was for him to wait until she had made peace with the consequences of her decision, a decision that in her mind she had already made. It would still take days for her to admit it to herself and say it aloud, and it would be weeks before she would act on it. But the decision had been made._

_She had made it when he said the words._

_"I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."_

**XXX**

**April 1917**

"Branson, when you've finished unloading, run down to the hospital and remind Lady Sybil that we expect her here for dinner," Cora said to Tom as he walked to the front of the motor from the rear, where he'd unloaded the suitcases of Lady Rosamund and one Sir Richard Carlisle.

Tom could barely contain his smile at Cora's words, knowing the reaction this would elicit from his beloved, who enjoyed nursing for numerous reasons that included the built-in excuse to skip dressing up for dinner.

"And tell her I mean it," Cora continued. "Really. They're working her like a pack horse in a mine."

Tom narrowed his eyes a bit at the woman who did not know she was his mother-in-law and ventured to answer a question she had not asked.

"I think she enjoys it, though," he said. That wasn't quite right. He _knew_ she enjoyed it, but speaking out of turn would be enough of an affront. Suggesting that he knew Sybil better than her own mother might have gotten him sacked.

As it was, all Cora did was turn abruptly, rebuking him with her eyes and repeating her request. "Please tell her to come home in time to change."

He nodded and turned back to the motor, rolling his eyes only when he knew he was out of Cora's sight. It hadn't been the first time someone had tried to remind him of his place. He was used to condescension and had learned to ignore it. But what he could never learn, could never understand, was how the Crawleys could so miserably fail to see Sybil for who she really was. Tom was disappointed in her family, but not surprised. How could he be when despite the realities and atrocities of war, their lives continued on marked by the same questions as before—who was coming to dinner, who was coming to stay. They were questions that Sybil had easily resolved she had no time for.

Working had taught Sybil numerous important lessons, but the one that frustrated her the most was that time was a luxury. In the days before the war, when life was little but sitting in the drawing room and waiting for the next meal to be served, she had all the time in the world, time that possessed no value to her.

Now, she had a job, a pile of medical books to read on Dr. Clarkson's suggestion to better her skills and knowledge about nursing and medicine, and a family that still expected her to dress and sit and wait for dinner. And she had a husband, one with whom she wished to spend all of her time and for whom she had almost none. The precious minutes spent alone with him were so valuable to her for their rarity and their intensity.

Sybil loved what she was doing and what she was learning, but there was so much for her to do and so little time to contend with every day's new demands. There was no task she was willing to give short shrift. She was a devoted nurse, a devoted student of medicine and, even within these odd circumstances, a devoted wife. She tried to remain a devoted daughter and sister, but what _that_ required of her—the dress, the waiting, the doing nothing—felt increasingly burdensome and decreasingly important.

When she and Tom made the decision to return to Downton as if nothing had changed and to wait out the war before revealing their marriage to her family, Sybil had known that it would be difficult, but she'd imagined that the difficulty would stem from the need for secrecy, not the lack of time she and Tom would have for each other. Three months later, it was still barely more than a handful of nights that they'd shared as husband and wife, only occasional the meals they could eat together, usually off the side of the road when she was off from work and had concocted an outing that did not spark the interest of another passenger. The kisses occurred at least once a day, a promise—nay a _challenge—_ they made to each other, but there were never enough. The only thing that existed in abundance in this, their unique and peculiar union, was love.

But in spite of all of that and although her dishonesty toward her family stung her deeply, Sybil had no regrets. Tom, for his part, only regretted that he could not give her more from married life. But even in this one, he could see her thriving and blossoming into the woman he always knew she could be. If anything was wearing on her that Tom could see, it was the continued pressure from her family to pretend that the war was not changing life, not changing _her_ in all the ways it obviously was. It worried Tom that they could remain so oblivious to what Sybil really wanted from life, and it angered him that they could not see how work and usefulness made her happy. He knew of Dr. Clarkson's support and encouragement, as well as Isobel's, and Tom was glad that Sybil was not without champions. They were going to need all the support they could get when the time came.

Once all the suitcases and trunks had been taken into the house, Tom set off for the hospital. He pulled the motor into the alley behind the building and came around to the front to enter, leaving behind his hat. He waved to the nurse at the front as he walked in. Most of the hospital staff was used to him coming in and out with Sybil—the service of a chauffeur was the one mark of Sybil's position that she was willing to accept while she worked, for reasons that had to do with wanting to keep his company, rather than a desire to seem above her co-workers. Her efforts had done much to get them to welcome her as an equal. They all knew that she had become a nurse despite arguments against it from her parents, so most assumed Tom's attentions came at Robert and Cora's insistence. An assumption of which Tom and Sybil took full advantage.

Finding her walking about the main wing, checking on her patients, Tom walked up to her and delivered her mother's message.

Sybil's response was exactly what he'd expected. "I couldn't possibly come! Really, Mama is incorrigible!"

Isobel, who was at the nurse's desk in the corner, spoke up, "It's not poor Branson's fault."

Sybil continued her work, now with some frustration in her step. "But what is the point of Mama's soirees? What are they for?"

Walking between Tom and Sybil, Isobel responded. "Well, I'm going to dinner tonight and I'm glad. Is that wrong?"

Sybil and Tom exchanged glances, his helpless, hers frustrated.

Seeing Thomas walking in their direction, Isobel addressed him, "Thomas, you can cover for Nurse Crawley, can't you?"

"I can," he replied.

Sybil's shoulders drooped. There was no getting out of it now. She looked once again at Tom, who smiled in an effort to make her feel better.

_Outside?_ he mouthed to her silently.

Sybil gave a small nod and mouthed, _Ten minutes_.

In an effort to kill some of that time while she finished her rounds, Tom followed Thomas, who was making up a bed.

"So you're back, then," Tom said sardonically. "Safe and sound."

"That's not how I'd put it with my hand the way it is," Thomas said in his usual uppity manner. "But yes, Major Clarkson's found me a place and I'm grateful."

Sybil came up behind Tom and handed Thomas a small cup. "Can you give Lieutenant Courtenay his pills?" She asked, irritation still marking her tone.

"Of course I can," Thomas answered, looking over at the patient. "I'd be glad to."

Tom followed Thomas' line of sight and saw a young man with bandages on his eyes. Sybil had been meant to look after him, whoever he was, but her family "needed" her at dinner. Tom thought again of Cora looking down at him for speaking out of turn, and let out a sigh. Sybil looked at him with a question in her eyes, but he simply tipped his head, letting her know he'd be waiting outside.

A little over ten minutes later, Sybil came to the alley to where Tom was leaning against the motor. Seeing no one else around, she snuck up behind him and wrapped her arms around him. He sank into her embrace.

"I suppose this means you won't be stopping by the cottage on your way back from the hospital tonight," he said with a smirk.

She pulled away so he could turn and nestled herself into the crook of his neck as he wrapped his arms around her.

"I'll sneak out," she said determinedly into his shoulder. "But why can't they just let me be? They know how much this means to me."

"We all have our ways of coping through uncertain times. Your family seems to want to cling to its traditions."

"I don't know why," Sybil said, reluctantly stepping out of the circle of his arms, cognizant of the fact that someone might happen by and see them.

"The newspaperman who is courting Mary is here," Tom added. "I think that's tonight's reason."

"I still can't believe Cousin Matthew is engaged. Surely he must know what that's doing to Mary."

"He might not. I don't mean to speak ill of your sister, but he proposed marriage and she never gave him a straight answer. He can't be blamed for assuming that she might move on and wanting to do the same."

"I don't know why she didn't say yes. It's two years now and it still baffles me."

"The question of the estate was in flux with your mother's pregnancy."

"I know, but I'll never believe that to be the only reason. There's more to Mary than that. I know there is."

Tom smiled. "Well, I'll believe it too, for your sake."

Sybil smiled back. "Aren't you glad I gave _you_ a straight answer?"

"Very glad." Tom paused, looked around to make sure there was still no one around then looked at her again with a sly smile. "I don't believe we've had our kiss for today."

Sybil grinned. "We haven't."

Softly at first, his lips connected with her, but quickly instinct took over and the kiss grew heated. As it deepened, Sybil found herself in his strong embrace again.

A moment later, with a sigh, she pulled away. "You best get going."

Tom stepped away and hopped into the car as Sybil pulled out a cigarette from her pocket.

"I hate those things," he said.

Sybil smiled as she lit it. Smoking for her had started as a ruse, an excuse to go outside so they could meet like this, but she found she rather enjoyed it. "I do it for you," she said with a wink.

Tom laughed and after turning on the motor, waved and pulled away.

The motor was still visible down the street when Sybil heard footsteps behind her. It was Thomas.

"What was he still doing here?" He asked.

Sybil turned and handed Thomas one of her cigarettes before he had a chance to take out his own. "Apparently, the motor wouldn't start."

Thomas accepted the gift with smile. He still found it odd that she could be on such friendly terms with someone who'd been in her family's employ when the rest of the Crawleys could barely be bothered to acknowledge him. Nevertheless, he accepted her friendship. It was bound to have its advantages, and even his deeply cynical instincts couldn't help but warm to her kind nature.

Sybil watched Thomas as he watched the motor disappear into the distance. She'd also befriended Thomas out of necessity. But as with the cigarettes, she found she rather liked him.

**XXX**

It was a risk to sneak into the cottage after so much had happened.

The presence of houseguests alone was enough to keep the staff up later than usual, and tonight, in addition, Dr. Clarkson had been called in to see to Carson after his near collapse in the dining room. Sybil also knew that Mary had gone to see Carson and sat with him for some time after Dr. Clarkson had gone.

It was almost 2 o'clock before Sybil could be confident that the house was finally asleep. The prudent thing might have been to wait to see him in the morning when he'd take her to the hospital for her next shift. But how could she stay away? Much as they might want it, there was simply no way for him to sneak inside. The burden of their secrecy lay on her shoulders. Given that, the decision of whether they met at night was always hers. She didn't dare sneak out every night, but there was never one she didn't want to go to him. On this occasion, the events of the evening had made her too restless for sleep, so slipping on the dark grey coat that obscured the whiteness of her nightdress, she set off for his cottage.

When she stepped inside, she saw that Tom was still up and sitting with a book on his lap on the armchair in the cottage's small sitting area. But as she walked closer she realized that he was not actually awake. His head was angled back against the back of the chair and his mouth was slightly open. Smiling, she took the book from his lap and shifted his legs slightly so she could sit on his lap. When she laid her head on his shoulder, he shook awake.

As soon as he had his bearings, his arms tightened around her.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"Hi."

"I wasn't expecting you tonight."

Sybil smirked. "Is that why you waited up?"

"Well, I always hope you'll come, but hope is not the same as expectation."

Sybil's smile softened, and she kissed him lightly on the side of his head.

"Besides," he added. "I thought with everything that happened tonight that you might want to talk."

"I do," Sybil said, standing up. "Later."

Tom smiled and followed her to the bedroom.

Even though making love was still new to them, Sybil and Tom had developed something of a ritual. They would undress each other, teasingly sometimes, particularly on the nights she came straight from the hospital and needed to be rid of her uniform and undergarments and not simply her nightgown. Then, both naked, she would turn away so he could unfasten the chain on which she carried her wedding ring. Then, he'd slip it on her finger, always as reverently as he'd done so the first time. It was usually slow and deliberate, both wanting to savor the feel of one another, never quite sure when the next time would be. Tom would hold himself back until she had climaxed, and once she had, they would separate and he would spend into a small towel he'd set by the bed. They'd also discovered that there were ways to enjoy their marriage bed that did not involve any risk of pregnancy at all. Even the pages of Madame Bovary had not prepared Sybil for this, but it was a wonderful and empowering surprise.

Twice, they'd gotten their hands on French letters. A year into the war, before Sybil had become a nurse, Isobel had suggested to Dr. Clarkson that he begin stocking preventatives in the hospital to keep the many soldiers who were returning from the continent with venereal disease from creating an outbreak in the county—a decision they wisely kept from the hospital patrons. The supply was available to the hospital staff, but Sybil couldn't be caught taking them, lest her reason for doing so be discovered. But she'd nicked one each of the two times she found herself in the supply room alone. She and Tom made joyous use of them.

A big family was something they both wanted, but the prospect of children had to wait. The inability to love each other freely without thought to consequence might have felt tedious for them both had they not found a way to rationalize pregnancy prevention as a decision rather than a mere necessity. As a matter of fact, they'd turned the decision into a form of rebellion. Sure, an expanding belly for Sybil would give their secret away before they were ready to reveal it, but she had been brought up in a world in which the pressure of producing an heir reduced a woman's role and identity to her biological function. By taking care not to end up with child now, Sybil felt that the children she would eventually bear would be a welcome _choice_ , not a social imperative. As such, the care they took to prevent a possible pregnancy was freeing in its own way.

**XXX**

Tangled in each other's arms, Tom and Sybil drifted in and out of sleep for about an hour after, eventually staying awake after the clock passed three.

"Is Carson going to be all right?" Tom asked breaking the silence.

"I reckon so," Sybil replied. "He's not ill so much as overworked."

"He wouldn't be if he weren't so fecking stubborn. I can think of worse tragedies than maids in the dining room."

Sybil snickered. "Well, there will be no avoiding it now. It's doctor's orders."

"So you got to skip dinner and be a nurse tonight, after all."

"I did. Matthew and Mary even seemed confident in my ability to help Carson."

"How are things between them?"

"It's hard to say. They both put on a good show."

"And their current prospects?"

Sybil sighed. "Miss Swire is very sweet. I hate to be against her and certainly don't wish her ill, but I can't imagine her with Matthew, not when I still believe he loves my sister."

"If you're right about that, he does Miss Swire no favors by staying with her. And Sir Richard?"

"He seems rather closed off. I suppose Mary being reserved herself, there is a similarity of manner between them, but beyond that, I don't know what she could possibly see in him. I can't imagine that he would make her happy the way she might have been with Matthew."

Sybil sat up and propped herself up on her elbow.

"I said as much to my aunt, actually—not about Matthew, but I asked her why Mary would like Sir Richard. Aunt Rosamund's answer was his money. Then she said something rather curious."

Tom pushed himself up slightly and leaned on the headboard. "What was that?"

"She said that money might not be sufficient reason for me, but it is for Mary."

Tom furrowed his brow.

Sybil bit her lip. "I overheard granny say something similar to mama once, when mama was still pregnant and the possibility that Matthew wouldn't be heir still existed. She said _I_ would be content as middle class wife, but Mary wouldn't be. The conversation wasn't about me. It was about Mary, so granny's comment was rather innocuous, but I remembered it tonight. It makes me wonder . . ."

"Wonder whether they'd accept our marriage?" He asked raising a skeptical brow.

"No, I know that'll be a fight," she said with a soft laugh. "It makes me wonder whether they'll be very surprised."


	3. Chapter 3

 

**November 1916**

_"Is something wrong Mr. Branson?"_

_Mrs. Hughes' question startles him. He doesn't know how long he's been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at the spot near the stove where Sybil had stood as he watched her happily show off her first cake._

_Since dropping her off at York this morning and being gutted by her response to his proposal, Tom has been in something of a waking coma._

_He remembers watching her walk away from him and toward her dormitory, unable to stop himself from feeling as if she is walking away from_ him _, away from his offer. What got him from that spot under the archway to the motor, back to Downton and into the kitchen, he doesn't know. He is grateful for muscle memory. Otherwise, he might have ended up with the car overturned in a ditch somewhere on the road between there and here._

_"Is everything all right Mr. Branson?" Mrs. Hughes repeats her question._

_"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he says finally._

_"And Lady Sybil is well off in York? Will she be looked after?"_

_The sound of her name catches him off guard. But he retains his composure and looks over at the kind housekeeper with what he hopes passes for a smile. "Yes, she was happy to be there, I think. Happy to be looking after herself."_

_Mrs. Hughes smiles. Tom knows how much she cares about Sybil. He wonders now what Mrs. Hughes, the only witness to their attachment, would think of what happened in that archway just hours ago. She had warned him against it once, falling in love with a daughter of the house. But she did so out of concern for him rather than judgment. He knows well that another pair of eyes would have gone in search for Carson, who'd have given him his walking papers on the spot. He also knows well that Mrs. Hughes knows_ him _, and likely knew even then that her stern words would do little to change his mind. He believes she intended the warning as a signal to him:_ I am looking out for you _._

_He appreciates the sentiment now, even if he cannot acknowledge it aloud._

_"You needn't have worried Mrs. Hughes," he wants to say. "It turns out she was smarter than both of us."_

_But he remains silent, and knowing that lingering inside he only draws attention to himself, he bows slightly to Mrs. Hughes and heads back to the garage._

_That night, as he lays sleepless in bed, he plays the scene in that archway over and over in his head. He thinks about what Sybil said, and what she didn't say._

_If she had said no and laughed in his face or called him ridiculous, then it might have been less heartbreaking. Of course, such a response would make her something other than who she is. But it would make it easier for him to dismiss his feelings as misguided, a passing fancy. It would make it easier to move on. As he falls asleep he considers whether he should simply pack up and go, despite her plea for him to stay._

_The following morning, driving Lord and Lady Grantham to Ripon, he overhears them talking about Sybil. Her father questions the need for her to be gone two months, "when it's likely, once she sees real blood," he says, "that she'll tire of the whole business in less than one." Her mother seems skeptical of his prediction but concedes that in order for her urge to work to be tamped down, it must be allowed to play out in a way that they may control._

_And Tom realizes that he cannot leave her._

_He doesn't know if she asked him to stay only because she knows that she will have no other supporter in her desire to lead a meaningful life, but that doesn't matter. He will play that role. Even if it means putting his own feelings aside, he will be there for her. He believes that she loves him, but he is willing to accept that she may never admit it, neither to herself, nor to him. But he cannot leave her alone because if he leaves her— even in a house full of people—alone is precisely what she would be._

**XXX**

**April 1917**

With Thomas two paces ahead and Sybil two paces behind, Lt. Courtenay walked carefully between the chairs his two caretakers had set up on the hospital lawn, moving his walking stick back and forth to check for obstructions.

"That's it," Thomas said, encouragingly. "That's right, sir. If you move the stick fast enough, you don't have to slacken your pace."

"And check the width of the space as well as any possible obstruction," Sybil added.

Over the lieutenant's shoulder, Sybil looked at Thomas, who looked back at her with a proud smile. Their patient had expressed deep doubts as to his being able to live a full life, but Thomas and Sybil were determined to keep him from seeing himself as an invalid. As Lt. Courtenay reached another set of chairs, the trio heard Dr. Clarkson call out and approach them.

"Lieutenant Courtenay! Well done. You're making good progress."

"Thanks to my saviours," he said quietly.

Sybil smiled at his kind words, as Thomas saluted the doctor.

"So you'll be pleased to hear that we're all agreed that it's time for you to continue treatment elsewhere," Dr. Clarkson said.

"What?" Lt. Courtenay responded with a bit of alarm in his voice.

"At Farley Hall," Dr. Clarkson continued. "You're not ill anymore. All you need is time to adjust to your condition, and the staff at Farley can help with that."

"But, sir, these two are helping me here," the lieutenant insisted.

"Nurse Crawley and Corporal Barrow are not trained in specialist care."

Sybil closed her eyes so Dr. Clarkson couldn't see her rolling them. She understood his responsibilities to the sickest and newly wounded men and she appreciated the guidance he was giving her as a nurse, but it was clear Lt. Courtenay wasn't ready to leave. That his physical wounds had healed did not in any way suggest he was ready to face the world.

"Please," the lieutenant pleaded. "Don't sent me away. Not yet."

"Sir, surely we—" Thomas spoke up, but was quickly made to remember his rank with a glare from Dr. Clarkson, which again set Sybil's eyes rolling. War was changing the world, but apparently not enough for even its most well-meaning inhabitants to give respect to those of lower class who dared express an opinion.

Dr. Clarkson took a step closer to the patient. "Lieutenant, you must know that every one of our beds is needed for the injured and dying from Arras." He squeezed the young man's arm and turned to leave, but not before adding, to Thomas, "Corporal, I'll see you in my office."

"Don't worry, Thomas," Sybil said quietly, once Dr. Clarkson was out of earshot, "he won't be rid of you. It'll just be a small rebuke, I suspect."

Thomas let out an angry breath. "Don't worry, Nurse Crawley, I'm quite used to being told what my place is."

"This is my fault," Lt. Courtenay said quietly. "If you hadn't been helping me . . ."

"It's our job to help you, isn't it?" Thomas said. "That's what we were doing, our jobs."

"Thomas is right, lieutenant. This is why we are here. Dr. Clarkson has great demands on him, but he shouldn't cast aside the purpose of our work, which is to help you regain your ability to live life. There is more to that than physical healing."

Lt. Courtenay smiled sadly. "I should be back to my bed. Don't want you to delay seeing him and get in further trouble."

Sybil and Thomas walked their patient back to the main wing. Thomas straightened his jacket and hat and walked in the direction of Dr. Clarkson's office, with Sybil a step behind.

"I should come in with you," she said.

He turned to give her a skeptical expression that made her laugh slightly. "I know what's coming. I can take it."

"I know you can, too," she said, grabbing him by the arm, "but there's more to it than that. The lieutenant needs time. We know that to be true. He's depressed, you said so yourself. You won't convince Dr. Clarkson on your own."

"It's funny that you think this will be a conversation."

Sybil put her hands on her hips. "It should be. You've been his primary caregiver recently. Your opinion deserves to be heard."

"Any other advice?" He asked sardonically.

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Don't spark up a cigarette." This got Thomas to smile just a bit, which pleased Sybil. "It'll be all right," she added.

"You and I have different definitions of 'all right'," he said, turning with a sigh.

Sybil watched him walk down the hall and knock on the door. Once he was in, and the door shut behind him, Sybil walked up and leaned as far as she could without drawing too much attention to the fact that she was trying to listen in.

The exchange, or what she could hear of it, went as expected. Dr. Clarkson reminded Thomas of the importance of the chain of command and the need for Thomas to respect it. Thomas accepted the rebuke and, to Sybil's delight, stood up for himself and attempted to explain the situation. Dr. Clarkson was having none of it, though, and before she knew what she was doing, Sybil knocked on the door and barged in.

"I thought you may want to know what I think," she said.

"Why should I?" Dr. Clarkson exclaimed, clearly angry and annoyed at having his authority questioned. "Nurse Crawley, I may not be your social superior in a Mayfair ballroom, but in this hospital, I have the deciding voice. Please help him prepare his belongings. He leaves first thing in the morning."

He sat down on his desk, signaling that the conversation, such as it was, was over.

Fifteen minutes later, Sybil had managed to contain her temper and was outside venting with Thomas over cigarettes.

"I sincerely apologize if anything I ever said to you during your time at Downton ever made you feel so small," Sybil said.

Thomas couldn't help but laugh. "With due respect, milady, everything about service makes one feel small. Your words really wouldn't have added much to the sting."

Sybil looked down at her hands, and she fidgeted with the cigarette between her fingers. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't complain about him being so condescending to me on a single occasion when you've had to endure it so much more."

Thomas shrugged as he took a puff of his cigarette. "Stubbing your toe hurts as much if you've done it once or a thousand times."

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him, playfully. "Are all former footmen so wise as you?"

Thomas didn't answer, but continued to smoke. After several minutes, he said, "Never underestimate what happens when a little power goes to a little person's head."

Sybil sighed. "Dr. Clarkson is a good man in a difficult position."

"Going soft already? And here I thought I could recruit you to overthrow the place."

"I'd help with that," Sybil said with a light laugh. She looked up at the sky for a moment and said quietly, "He's healed, but he's not well. It was a distinction, I daresay, I did not understand before now. Dr. Clarkson is not wrong about the need for more beds, but neither are we wrong about Lt. Courtenay."

"But it doesn't matter who's wrong, does it?" Thomas put in. "It matters who is _right_. And the person who has the power is the person who's right."

Sybil smiled sadly. She had worked hard so that those around her at the hospital could see past her position, but now she couldn't help but wish her title had power she could wield in a way that could make a difference in her patient's life.

They were both about to finish their cigarettes and head inside, when they heard the sound of the motor and, shortly after, saw Tom turn into the alley and drive up to where they were standing.

"What are you doing here?" Thomas asked.

Tom hopped out of the car and walked up to Thomas and Sybil, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Her ladyship wanted me to come and check to see if you were coming for dinner," he said, formally addressing Sybil.

"Looking into Tom's eyes," Sybil could see that it was a ruse, but she had to play along.

Trying not to seem as if she was exaggerating, she rolled her eyes and said, "I told mama repeatedly that I am on duty until midnight."

"That's a no, then?" Tom asked.

Sybil rolled her eyes again. "An emphatic one, but I don't want you to be on the receiving end of her frustration, Branson, so if you don't mind waiting, I'll go inside, write her a note and bring it back so you can take it to her."

Tom nodded.

"Are you coming in?" She asked Thomas as nonchalantly as she could.

Tom pulled his lips into his mouth in an effort not to smile at her efforts to get Thomas back inside the hospital, so that they could be alone when she came back out. She mentioned often how uncomfortable she was lying to the people around her, people that she loved. And he knew she meant it when she said that she did not like deceit. Still, there was no denying she was very good at lying.

Without a word to Tom, the two went inside the hospital, and several minutes later, she came back out alone. As she approached him, she looked behind her once to ensure that there was no one else near, then walked into his embrace and closed her eyes, relishing in the warmth of being in his arms.

"Thank you," she whispered into shoulder.

"For what?"

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "For knowing that I would need you right now."

"I suppose that means it's already been a long day?"

"Yes," she said nestling back into him. "And yet I wish the shifts were even longer. In spite of the frustrations, I never want to leave here."

"You're a few months in now. Is it what you thought it would be?"

"No. No, it's more savage and more cruel than I could've imagined, but I feel useful for the first time in my life, and that must be a good thing."

Tom squeezed her. "It is."

"It's more emotional than I was expecting, the depth of the wounds, I mean. And it's more political as well."

"It's a good lesson to learn," he said.

"Oh? And what's that?" She asked, pulling away again, with a slight smirk.

"Everything is political."

"And unfortunately, Dr. Clarkson is not always a benevolent politician."

"What do you mean?"

Sybil smiled. "I'll tell you more tonight. Come to pick me up and bring a blanket," she said giving him a quick peck on the lips and stepping out of the circle of his arms.

"Can you, um . . ."

"Sneak into the supply room?" Sybil finished for him, with a knowing smile.

Tom raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"I'll do my best," she answered. Then, she pulled the note she'd written out of her pocket and handed it to him.

He laughed taking it from her. "Am I really to deliver this to your mother?"

"It's not for her, silly, it's for you." With that, Sybil turned and left him alone in the alley.

He climbed into the motor and opened the folded up piece of paper.

_My darling husband,_

_I do love you so much._

_Always your beloved, Mrs. S.P. Branson_

**XXX**

It had been a busy night and Sybil barely had a chance to sit down. What was more, Nurse Roberts, the head nurse, was hovering. She was a stern but kind woman, and Sybil liked the fact that she had no patience for incompetence or dillydallying. She was very good at her job, which was, on this night, keeping Sybil from finding a moment to step into the supply room. At night, the small room down the main hall from Nurse Roberts' desk and Dr. Clarkson's office, was frequently empty. The door was kept closed and the cupboards were locked. The key was kept in a small drawer just inside the door, so going in to steal a handful of preventatives required several minutes, which was long enough for the always alert Nurse Roberts to notice an absence.

But thankfully for the overworked staff, activity slowed considerably after lights out was called in the main wing at 10 p.m., and several nurses ended their shift and went home. Sybil and another nurse—Agnes Wilson, a young woman about Sybil's age—were sent to the linen closet to ready sheets for the beds that would be needed for the new patients coming in the next day. They'd been there several minutes when Agnes excused herself to go to the bathroom. Figuring this was the best opportunity she was going to have, Sybil looked out into the hall and, on seeing it was clear, crossed it and walked into supply room, opening the door and closing it behind her as quickly as she could. The gasp she heard once the door closed was so loud, Sybil almost fell over in surprise.

Agnes, it seemed, had had the very same idea as Sybil and feared herself caught red-handed.

"Oh, Nurse Crawley, please don't think less of me!" She said hurriedly, dropping the box of French letters and spilling them onto the floor. "I don't normally take things from the stores—I swear it! And certainly not this. It's just—"

Sybil stepped up to Agnes and bent over to help her pick up the box's contents. "Please, Nurse Wilson, you've no need to explain. I would never judge you." Sybil closed her hand over her fellow nurse's shaking hands and the small circular packets they held. "What you do is your business."

Agnes smiled and looked relieved. "I . . . I have a beau, you see," she said quietly. "My parents want me to establish myself in my work before I marry, so we're waiting until after the war. Anyway, he goes to the front next week, and . . . I don't . . . well, I _do_ love him, but I . . . I, um, don't want to end up with child."

"You're very good to protect yourself," Sybil, nodding, hoping to assure Agnes as much as she could that she was doing the right thing. "There's no reason women can't . . . do as men do . . . as it were."

Once they'd finished picking up, they stood, and Agnes placed the box back in the cupboard, but not before slipping one of the French letters into her apron pocket. "He wants to wait until we marry, Roger does. He's good man. But I dare not tempt fate, not when I see the consequences of war every day. I want him to know how much I love him before he goes, in case there's no other chance."

"He's lucky to have you," Sybil said.

Agnes smiled again and turned to go. She was at the door when she turned again. "Nurse Crawley?"

"Yes?" Sybil said, still standing in the middle of the room.

"At the risk of sounding terribly presumptuous . . . what _you_ do is your business as well. I promise."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you."

Agnes opened the door and closed it behind her, and Sybil turned toward the still open cupboard. There were four boxes. The opened one that Agnes had dropped was now a bit haphazardly arranged. Sybil took it out and tried to arrange the packets neatly again. She looked to the cupboard door, which had the shelf's inventory, initialed by Nurse Roberts, tacked on to it. Sybil thought it funny that the head nurse—and by extension Cousin Isobel—made it seem as if they cared about keeping track of how many were kept and ordered every month, when the truth was she and Agnes were likely not the only members of the hospital staff who'd helped themselves to them.

The preventatives were there to be given to soldiers as they left, but they were accessible to anyone who knew where the key was, which was essentially everyone who worked at the hospital. Sybil supposed this was how change worked sometimes—you make it _appear_ as if you live by the old mores, but secretly make it possible to get around them. She wondered whether it would always be like this and whether there would be a day when women—married or not—could talk openly about their experiences without feeling judgment or shame. She hoped if that day ever came, she'd be alive to see it.

Satisfied that the box looked as it should and feeling rather bold knowing she was not alone in her womanly desires, she took three and put the box back in its place. She could have taken more, she supposed—a whole box even, but that would shatter the careful illusion that had been put into place. Nurse Roberts and Isobel couldn't well pretend they weren't being nicked, if the thieves got too greedy.

After locking the cabinet again and replacing the key, Sybil stepped out the door and closed it behind her. She was about to step into the linen closet again, where Agnes was back and folding sheets quietly, when she heard a ruckus down the hall.

Agnes heard it too. "Do you suppose there's an emergency?"

Concerned, Sybil looked back down the hall. "Let's go see if we're needed."

The two ran down the hall and looked into the main ward, where two nurses and one of the on-duty medical officers were hovering over one of the beds.

"It's too late," Sybil heard the officer say. "He's gone. Let's clean this up."

Sybil and Agnes walked in to help. The officer was walking back to the front office, and as he passed them, he said, "We've had a suicide, I'm afraid. Best get the blood cleaned up before any of the others wake and see what's happened."

"Which patient?" Agnes asked.

"Lieutenant Courtenay."

**XXX**

Sybil was already standing outside the hospital when Tom arrived in the motor. He could tell as he pulled up that something was wrong. Even as he walked up to her, Sybil continued to stare out in front of her as if he wasn't there.

"Is everything all right, love?" Tom asked quietly.

Sybil blinked several times as if only now realizing he was there. "Yes, fine," she said in a distant voice. "We should get going," she said, standing up abruptly and walking past him and into the backseat of the motor. "I need to be back early tomorrow."

Tom watched her closely for a couple of minutes. It was clear she needed to get away from the hospital more than anything, so without further question to her, he got into the driver seat and started the motor and drove away. They were not halfway back to Downton, when Sybil yelled out, "STOP!"

Tom quickly pulled the motor over to the side of the road, near what he knew to be an empty field of wildflowers, which were barely visible now in the dark of midnight. Sybil hopped out of the car before Tom had a chance to help her off and walked a few feet before bending over and retching loudly. Tom ran up behind her and patted her back softly until she was done. As she straightened herself up, he handed her his handkerchief. Sybil looked at it and turned it over in her hands for a moment before bursting into tears. Tom pulled her into his arms, where she collapsed into him, sobbing as loudly as he'd ever heard her.

Several minutes later, finally calm, Sybil pulled herself away from his arms and used the handkerchief to wipe the remainder of her tears. Tom took the time to pull out the blanket he had brought. He took her by the hand and the two walked about twenty yards into the field. Tom set the blanket on the grass. They laid back onto it, snuggled close, and Sybil told him, from the beginning, the story of Lt. Edward Courtenay and how the hospital had failed him.

"He had survived the fighting," she said, as she reached the end of her narrative. "He had made it through what was likely to be the worst of his life, and we couldn't help him realize that it really had been the worst and that it was over." Sybil lifted herself up from where she was laying on his chest, to look into his eyes. "The saddest thing, I think, is that he'll not be considered a casualty of the war. But he _was_. The fighting kills some, but the return kills so many more—in spirit, if not in fact—and we don't even realize it."

Tom ran his fingers along the edges of her face. "War is an angry, unforgiving god."

Sybil laid back down on his chest. "It troubles me," she continued, "that I cannot discern the cause of this war, the reason we are fighting, the reason we are losing lives like this. Is it worth having agreed to put aside the fight for women's suffrage, when women with votes might have stopped it all?"

"We are all, men and women, raised to think that the cause of our king is _our_ cause and that war brings honor, but only a government that believes all lives are equal can weigh whether the loss of those lives is worth whatever victory may bring."

"The women's cause has seen death," Sybil said.

"So has the Irish cause."

"And more death will come with this war. If nothing else, I hope Lt. Courtenay is at peace. I hope they all are."

Tom shifted and tilted Sybil's face toward his to give her a soft kiss. As he moved away, Sybil pulled him back into her with her hand, threading her fingers into his hair. Their kiss grew heated and Sybil shifted again to begin unbuttoning Tom's livery jacket. When he realized what she was doing, he pulled away and put his hand over hers, stilling her movements. "Sybil—"

"Please, Tom."

"But you should rest tonight. You need to rest and give yourself time to absorb what's happened."

"What I need is to feel alive and to be loved by you."

Tom smiled softly, looking into her watery eyes. "What about . . ."

Sybil nodded and pulled what they needed out of her apron pocket.

"And if someone happens by and sees us?" Tom asked.

"Then, let them see. The stars and the heavens and God will see, and _they_ will not judge us harshly."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter ended on the night of the death of Lt. Courtenay and about two months have gone by, which is about as long as it took to get the Crawleys fully on board with the convalescent home idea and get the mission off the ground within the Army organization.

 

**December 1916**

_"Sybil?"_

_Sybil turns from where she is sitting on her dormitory bed looking out the window, in a bit of a daze, to see her roommate, Caroline, standing by the door, obviously ready to leave for their brief holiday from the college. All students in the nursing course have December 23rd through the 26th to spend with their families._

_"Sorry," Sybil answers. "Are you leaving?"_

_Caroline nods. "May not get the warmest greeting in the world, but it'll be nice having a good meal anyway."_

_"You know what they say about absence," Sybil says with a small smile. "Maybe the weeks without seeing you will have healed the rift."_

_"It'll be an ugly scar, either way."_

_"Well, you know all about those now."_

_"I suppose," Caroline says, as Sybil's eyes go back to the window. Caroline looks at the door she was just about to walk through, then back at Sybil with a sigh. She puts her bag down next to the door and with a smile sits down next to a girl with whom she only very reluctantly became friends but who now likely knows more about her than anyone._

_It's funny what can happen when you meet someone immediately after you've made a life-changing decision, the kind that reveals your true self to people who believed they knew you up until the point it's clear to them that they didn't. Those who come into your life in the wake of such a choice are better able to see you for who you really are. So it was that Sybil came to know Caroline, who had all but run away from her family and their plans for her. Sybil, by contrast, was only on the precipice of such a choice when they met, and she is still weighing not so much making the jump as her ability to weather the fall._

_"Are you thinking about what it will be like seeing him again?" Caroline asks._

_"My sisters will be with him," Sybil says. She laughs humorlessly and adds, "Well, not_ with _him. So far they are concerned he's not even there. He's just an appendage of the motor that happens to look like a person."_

_Caroline smiles. "I thought you said you liked your sisters."_

_"I do," Sybil replies. "I suppose I'm trying my hand at being unforgiving, so I'm prepared when they don't forgive me."_

_"Do you really think they won't?"_

_"No, I don't think that," Sybil says with a sigh. "Eventually, they'll forgive me, but they won't understand. They don't even understand_ this _," Sybil adds, looking around the small room she and Caroline share. "Anyway, they wrote to say they'd be coming to see what I've been up to these past few weeks. So I won't be free to address him directly, certainly not about what's happened between us. Not that I even know what I want to say."_

_Caroline laughs. "But you do know what you want to say, and that's yes. And once you say it, I think you'll find everything else will take care of itself."_

_"That's rather what I'm afraid of."_

_"No," Caroline says simply._

_"No?"_

_"You're not afraid."_

_"Know me so well, do you?" Sybil says with a smirk._

_Caroline rolls her eyes. "I know you well enough. You've had your answer for him since the day he left you here. You said so yourself. I think it's mad that a girl like you wants to marry a bloke like him, but neither you nor I have managed to talk you out of it. The specter of your family's disapproval certainly hasn't done anything to scare you off. If you were afraid, you'd never even have considered it. You'd just have let him leave his job when he offered."_

_Sybil rubs her face with her hands. She looks at Caroline again. "So how do we do it, then?_

_Caroline stands. "That's for you to figure out," she says with a laugh as she walks toward the door. She picks up her bags and opens the door, saying, "In the novels, they always go to Scotland."_

_Sybil laughs. "I hope everything goes well with your parents."_

_Caroline smiles. "Me too."_

_Sybil turns back toward the window smiling at how different their parting is from the day they met._

_The only child of a shopkeeper in Skipton, Caroline Price grew up helping her father mind the till so she is good with numbers. But despite her obvious cleverness, her parents had no plans for her to inherit her father's business. Instead, from the time she was fourteen, they'd told her she'd marry the young man who'd become her father's partner a few years back and assist him in keeping the shop, as his wife. Realizing that she would need to make her own way, lest she be forced to be with a man she saw as gruesome and lecherous, Caroline began working on her own, keeping books for the baker down the street, the laundress next door and a few others, saving everything she could._

_When the war came, she'd just finished school but the work doubled and in two years, she'd earned enough to complete a short nursing course that she hoped would get her a start in a new profession or, at the very least, help her catch the eye of a conscientious and hardworking officer—or even just a wealthy one. Any future was better than one in which she had no say._

_Because her father was a supplier for Mr. Jarvis, the agent for the Downton estate, Caroline knew of the Crawleys. So when she'd received notice that she'd be sharing a room with one of the daughters, she was livid._

Who was this so called 'lady' who fancied herself a working woman? _Caroline thought when she got the letter with her room assignment_ , and what right did she have to take the spot of a girl who didn't have the option of running to mummy when the blood got to be too much?

_Never one to hold back her opinion, Caroline let Sybil know her mind the moment she walked into their room for the first time._

_Sybil was taken aback but didn't say much in her own defense._

_She couldn't exactly blame Caroline for her assumptions. Sybil wanted so much to support the war effort, in honor of the friends who had given their lives. She wanted to feel useful, but nothing in her education or experience had prepared her for this. She wanted desperately to make it through the course and prove to herself that her class did not define her ability or willingness. Still, Sybil knew that it was possible—likely even—that her best effort would not suffice._

_So Sybil pushed Tom out of her mind, put her head down and did her work. The lessons were not all easy, but her confidence and self-belief grew every day. She and Caroline mostly avoided one another, exchanging as few words as possible in their first week as roommates. But where the new found freedom both girls were experiencing for the first time served to focus Sybil on the task at hand, it had the opposite effect on Caroline. Early on, she, along with some of the less disciplined students, spent most of her nights at a local pub frequented by enlistees home from war. Caroline was so clever that her marks did not falter, but she was twice caught outside the dormitory after hours._

_The third offense would have gotten her dismissed from the program had Sybil not heard the dormitory headmistress coming down the hall. In something of a panic, without thinking, Sybil snuck into Caroline's bed before the woman opened the door to check that both girls were in for the night. When she saw an empty bed on Sybil's side of the room, such was her shock that the earl's daughter had gone astray that she didn't bother to check who it was under the covers in Caroline's bed. The following morning, the headmistress, herself extremely skeptical as to Sybil's commitment to her studies, rebuked her with great relish in front of the entire class—something she'd not done with any of the other students who'd missed their curfew. Again, Sybil did not speak in her own defense. Only this time, Caroline realized that while Sybil's position had made a great many things easier for her, it also managed to make other things—like proving one's self—more difficult._

_That night, Sybil and Caroline sat down to talk for the first time, and they became friends._

ooo

_After Caroline has left, Sybil stands and paces about the room for several minutes before finally sitting down at her small desk. She pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen and begins writing. She is reading over what she's written when she hears a knock on the door. Knowing it's likely her sisters, she quickly folds the paper and slips it into her pocket._

_Mary and Edith greet her warmly and are immediately taken aback by the thorough simplicity of Sybil's room. Indulging their interest in how she has spent her time in York, almost like travelers in a foreign land, Sybil takes her sisters on a small tour of the dormitory and the buildings around the college she most frequents. The distraction is almost enough to take her mind off Tom Branson. But not quite._

_Twenty or so minutes later, Mary and Edith are both ready to head home, and Sybil can't delay seeing him any longer. As they approach the motor, she can see the tension in his stance. He sees them coming from several yards away and immediately comes over to take Sybil's small suitcase, doing so without looking directly at her. Sybil could have tried to seek his eyes out, stare at him until he returned her gaze, but the truth is, she is so nervous, so concerned that her sisters will somehow guess at her intentions by merely witnessing her exchange glances with him that she doesn't bother. She lets her sisters' presence be her excuse and tries to behave as Mary and Edith do, which is to say, of course, behave as if he isn't there at all._

_Only when he offers his hand to help her in do their eyes meet. Sybil smiles, trying to offer him as much as she can in her expression, and in the split second they hold hands, she sees understanding in his. Despite the rebuke he might have felt when they saw each other last, he has forgiven her. It warms Sybil to feel so much in so small a moment, and it strengthens her resolve._

_She thinks,_ How could it be possible to understand so much without words if we aren't meant to be together?

_It's an excruciating hour on the road. Sybil sits on the seat directly behind Branson, with her back to him. It's both an effort to feel close to him and to avoid the temptation of looking at him the whole way home. When they arrive at Downton, as her sisters are stepping off the motor ahead of her, Sybil discreetly tucks her gloves—which she took off for this very purpose—into the seat and hopes that when he finds them he knows it will mean that she is going to come to him._

_After receiving warm greetings from her family, after a luncheon that includes some of her favorite foods and after laying down to rest at her mother's insistence, Sybil finally finds herself alone enough to go see him._

_He doesn't hear her approach, giving her the opportunity to watch him cleaning his tools on the table next to the motor. He works methodically, jacket and tie off, shirtsleeves rolled up, hands dirty with grease. She is more sure than ever._

_"Tom?"_

_His head whips around to face her because he hears it—not just her voice, but her answer. Her tone, her manner of addressing him, all of it says, "Yes!" and he hears it._

_She is about to take a step forward but the moment is broken as Edith's voice rings out from the yard behind Sybil._

_"What are you doing out here?"_

_Sybil takes a breath to compose herself and then turns around. "I've forgotten my gloves. I wanted to ask Branson if he'd seen them."_

_"Here you are, milady," he says, picking them up from where they'd been sitting on top of a clean towel on the table, small and delicate and yet not out of place here because they are hers._

_Sybil turns again to take them from him and quickly takes the note from her pocket. Edith comes upon them, but not soon enough to notice the exchange._

_"I was out for a walk to the village," Edith says. "Cousin Isobel says to tell you hello and that she's looking forward to hearing how you are getting on. She'll be joining us for dinner."_

_"Good," Sybil says. She and Edith move to go. At the garage door, Sybil looks back and says, "Thank you, Branson."_

_He nods, the note in the fist he's holding behind his back. He walks to the door to watch them go inside through the servants' entrance. Once they are out of sight, he runs to his cottage and slams the door behind him. He looks at the piece of paper, knowing it holds the rest of his life. His hands are shaking as he unfolds it._

My dearest Tom,

For too long, I believed loving one another from the distance that exists between us would be enough. Your proposal in York woke me from that foolish notion, but such was my shock that I could not find words to answer you then, as you deserved.

I did not need this past fortnight to convince myself to love you. I needed it to convince myself that what I will gain will be worth the toil we will both face in its attainment. Please forgive my will for faltering. It had never faced such a test before you, but now I am sure. And just as you promise to devote yourself to my happiness, so will I devote myself to yours.

I don't know whether I'll have the chance to see you alone while I'm home or if you'll be asked to drive me back. If not, I'll tell you now that the college gives leave for the twelfth night. I've kept that fact from my family. Come to me in York then, if you can, and we shall have three days to make our plan.

Yours always, Sybil

 

**June 1917**

"We will be taking on more nurses to help cover the work at the convalescent home and here," Nurse Roberts, the head nurse, said to the full hospital staff, who had been asked to gather in one of the empty wings of the hospital for the announcement that after more than a month of negotiations and paperwork between His Majesty's Army and the Crawley family, Downton Abbey would finally begin to function as a convalescent home for patients at the hospital once they were well enough to be transferred there.

"Everyone's shifts will begin alternating between the Abbey and the hospital once the house has been properly outfitted for this new endeavor, a task that is taking place even as we speak," Nurse Roberts continued. "Dr. Clarkson is on his way now and will be overseeing things. He expects everything to be in place by the time we begin to send the first batch of patients there tomorrow afternoon. We are grateful to Lord and Lady Grantham for welcoming our patients and ourselves into their home. They are happy to be aiding in the war effort, so let's not make them unhappy by our conduct."

Nurse Roberts looked over the small crowd sternly so as to emphasize her last point. Apparently satisfied that it got through, she added, "Thank you. You are dismissed."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as it began to disperse. Sybil turned to Agnes, who had been standing next to her.

"Be honest," Agnes said with a smile. "Are they really happy to have us?"

Sybil laughed. "Some more than others, I'll admit. My grandmother, in particular, was not, but she's rarely happy about anything. To be honest, I think mama only agreed to it because granny was so set against the idea and they so enjoy being on opposite sides of an argument. There'll be a struggle for control, either way."

"What do you mean?"

Sybil sighed. "Mrs. Crawley knows the most about how such an operation should be run and certainly won't hold back in offering her thoughts on it. She brought forward the idea, so she sees it as her responsibility to ensure it comes off well. But mama won't like being told what to do in her own house. As for granny, there's not a day she lives that she doesn't still think of herself as Downton's true mistress."

"Well, I'm sure it will sort itself out," Agnes said.

Sybil smiled. "War has a way of doing that, doesn't it?"

Agnes nodded, then looked past Sybil's shoulder to see Thomas lingering behind them. Sybil noticed and turned to see who she was looking at.

"So what do you think, Mr. Barrow?" Agnes asked. "Will you be happy to go back to your old stomping ground?"

"I'm perfectly happy here, where the real work will be done," Thomas said unsmiling. "There's no role for me at the convalescent home that I can see, and I like to be where I am needed."

Sybil smiled. "And we know you have no trouble convincing people they need you when it suits."

Thomas couldn't help but smirk. It was a funny thing to hear her say. People of Sybil's class rarely understood the extent to which their servants took advantage—usually out of necessity—because money has a way of covering up folly brought on by gullibility. He'd remind himself to take care not to pull one over on Sybil, but then, he'd long passed the point of ever wanting to. That hadn't stopped him, however, from listening to her and Agnes just now. He wouldn't be going back to the house permanently, but he wondered whether it would be worth paying his old friend Miss O'Brien a visit this afternoon.

As the room cleared, Thomas, Sybil and Agnes all walked out and followed the crowd through the hall.

"I best be getting back to it, then," Agnes said. "Are you working now as well?" She asked Sybil as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"No," Sybil replied. "I only came to hear the announcement. The staff will be working this morning to get the house ready, so I'm going back to help with that, but I'll be in this evening."

"I'll be sure to leave the really difficult work for you," Agnes said with a wink and then moved on toward the main ward and the nurse's desk.

Sybil and Thomas both headed out the main door, his cigarettes out of his pocket before they'd made it down the front steps.

"So may I ask an honest question," he said after lighting up and taking a long drag.

"That's the only kind of question you should ask," Sybil replied after taking a puff of her own.

"Do you really think your family can handle it?"

Sybil smiled. "They're more hardy than you give them credit for."

Thomas smirked, the skepticism clear on his face, which caused Sybil to laugh.

"Some will take to the adjustment more than others," she said. "But even granny understands that change is inevitable. She doesn't like it, but she understands it. Better than papa, I dare say."

"Everyone keeps saying that the war is changing us," Thomas said. "But I don't quite believe it."

Sybil smiled to herself as she flicked the ash of her cigarette. She'd already been witness to so much change—she was a _vehicle_ for it. But she couldn't tell Thomas, not yet, not merely to make a point. "You don't have to see it for the fact to be true," she said finally. After a moment, she added, "My family hasn't seen it either, but it's inescapable, even to people like them. Having victims of this war walking around their house and grounds will make it real to them. So what will take for you?"

Thomas thought for a long moment about everything he wished could be different—about himself and about everything around him. "I couldn't say."

"Well, I should be off," Sybil said, dropping her cigarette on the ground and stepping on it.

She had taken several steps toward the road when she heard Thomas call out to her. "Do you realize you keep saying _they_?"

Sybil turned back toward him "What?"

"When you talk about the family and change, you say they."

Sybil looked down for a moment, then back up to Thomas. "Yes, I suppose I do."

**XXX**

By the time Sybil made it back to the house, the Army's trucks had arrived and Dr. Clarkson's team, along with some on the house staff, were already into the task of bringing equipment into the house. Sybil noticed immediately when she stepped into the hall that Tom was among those helping. She winked at him as she walked past him, which caused him to smile. They had not kissed yet that day, but there were too many people about for that at the moment.

Outside, a handful of uniformed men had been unloading bed frames from the trucks outside and placing them just inside the door. Dr. Clarkson, with Anna, Ethel, Tom and two of the hallboys, was bringing the frames into the parlor, where Sybil could hear Isobel and her mother, not exactly bickering, but clearly not agreeing. Sybil quickly shed her coat and placed it on one of the hooks near the door, leaving her uniform cap on and stepped in to help.

"So how many are we to expect tomorrow?" Sybil asked as she waited for Dr. Clarkson to pick up a frame so she could do the same behind him.

"Three dozen officers at my last count," he answered and the two walked into the parlor hauling the frames.

Sybil looked around the room as they stepped in, Tom just a few steps behind them. The back and forth between Isobel and Cora was amusing as Isobel likely presumed all but the family's bedrooms would be available for the men while Cora pointed out the various inconveniences of Isobel's choices. Meanwhile, Edith was trying to get a word in edgewise and not succeeding. The time Sybil had spent with Isobel at the hospital had taught her that Isobel was a bit of a taskmaster when something needed doing and one either stayed out of her way or stated an opinion strongly and definitively, neither of which Edith was doing right now.

"Why will we only have officers?" Sybil asked in response to Dr. Clarkson. "Surely all wounded men need to convalesce."

"The hospital is for officers, and the whole idea is to have a complimentary convalescent home," he said.

Sybil's brow furrowed slightly. "Of course, but I don't know if we can make that an absolute rule." Despite her admiration for Dr. Clarkson's commitment to his work, she was continually frustrated by his continued adherence to the chain of command, one led by men whose paths into leadership had been forged by position and class, not skill or service.

Tom had his eyes trained on her and, as always, felt pride in her determination to point out unfairness when she ran across it.

Sybil looked at Dr. Clarkson for a reply to her comment, but it was Isobel who offered one. "If the world were logical, I would rather agree with you."

"Which comes as no surprise."

The group turned to see Violet at the door of the room, looking none too pleased at the activity.

"You would not, I imagine," Isobel said.

"You imagine right," Violet said with a huff. "What these men will need is rest and relaxation. Will that be achieved by mixing ranks and putting everyone on edge?"

Violet turned and left the room again, Carson on her heels. Sybil and Tom had exchanged looks at the mention of "mixing ranks." Sybil could see a slight smirk forming on his face as he looked away.

_Did you expect anything else?_ He seemed to be saying.

_No_ , she thought, _I didn't_. But that also didn't mean she'd let Violet have the last word. So Sybil went after her grandmother back into the hall to make her own opinion clear and speak up for sharing space among all classes, an arrangement that made perfect sense so far as her own life was witness.

"Granny," she called out.

Violet turned toward her. "Hmm?"

"Different ranks can relax together, it has been known." _My husband and I do so as often as we can._

Sybil had lost count now of the number of times that irritation at her family's rigid mores had pushed the truth to the tip of her tongue. She always managed to hold it back because she knew she couldn't afford to leave her job, not yet—and because she wouldn't divulge such precious news out of anger. Even while knowing that her family would not respond in kind, she had resolved early on that when the time came, the news of her marriage would be delivered with the love and happiness that the union itself inspired in her.

"Well, don't look at me, I'm very good at mixing," Violet said quickly, almost defensively. Turning to Carson, she said, "We always danced the first waltz at the servants' ball, didn't we, Carson?"

"It was an honor, my lady," was his proud reply.

"It's a lot to ask when people aren't at their best," Violet said, addressing Sybil again, and effectively ending the conversation. Violet moved on and asked Carson after Mary, but Sybil had stopped listening. Her grandmother's position was untenable, but so politely expressed that it almost seemed like a favor to those harmed by it, instead of an insult to them.

Sybil imagined a like response to her request for her family to accept Tom. _He's a nice young man and a good driver, Sybil, but it wouldn't be good for him to be one of us. He'd be so uncomfortable all the time, not knowing what to say or how to dress. He must stay a servant and away from you—it's for his own good._

Sybil scratched her head wondering if perhaps a better solution to the question that constantly plagued her— _How do I tell them?_ —would be, at the war's end, to run away without word and leave them forever to wonder what caused her to flee.

Isobel's voice pulled her out of her reverie. "Sybil, I want to have a quick word with you."

"Yes?"

"Nurse Roberts will be here first thing tomorrow, and I'd like you to give her a full tour of the house. She will remain at the hospital primarily, but I'd like for her to have a full understanding of what's being done here and have the lay of the land so she may address our staffing needs with clear eyes."

Sybil bit her lip. "Won't that be . . . inappropriate?"

"What do you mean by that?" Isobel asked.

"Nurse Roberts is my superior at the hospital. I don't want her to think that I expect to be treated differently or that because this is my family's house, I know more than she does."

"But you do know more—at least as far as the house is concerned," Isobel said with a smile.

Sybil looked down at her hands. "I mean—"

"I understand what you mean, my dear," Isobel said putting her hand on Sybil's shoulder. "You've done a marvelous job adapting to your new role, and she has nothing but praise for you, with regard to your work."

Sybil smiled. "And I don't want that to change."

"Sybil, I know you will be walking a fine line, as a nurse as well as a member of the 'host' family, as it were. But I know you can walk it. Your knowledge of the house and its nooks and crannies will be helpful to those who will work alongside you. There is nothing wrong with sharing that knowledge. Don't dismiss the gifts your upbringing may have given you, and what you can offer others just because it's not an upbringing everyone can relate to."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you."

"Now let's keep at it, shall we?"

With that Sybil went back to work, and for the next several hours helped assemble the beds alongside Tom, who was not exactly able to talk with her, certainly not as freely as they both would have liked, but he remained near. Despite the forced quiet between them, both relished in the feeling of getting to work side by side.

**XXX**

The crews continued working until it was time for luncheon. Tom joined the staff in the servants hall and was amused at how put off the staff was at the sudden intrusion of the war and its casualties on their lives. The complaints were not unlike those Sybil had related to him regarding the family's reaction to the changes that were afoot. Still, at least for the servants, the additional duties the convalescent home would bring had been thrust upon them quite without alternative. The family had agreed to welcome the wounded officers, but still somehow managed to act as if the whole thing was happening _to_ them, like an act of an unmerciful god. Hearing her ladyship complain about having so few places to sit this morning made him wonder again how it was that Robert and Cora Crawley could have raised such a daughter as Sybil.

Given the choices Sybil had made of which her parents were not yet aware, Tom knew that there would come a time when the Crawleys would consider themselves very unlucky and wonder where they had gone wrong. It pained him to know that, especially considering how obviously happy Sybil was this morning to be working and active and even so surrounded by those she loved. Him included. He, for one, would never begin to forget how lucky he was to have her and would always be grateful for whatever her parents had done (or failed to do) for her to have turned out so capable and so willing to love him.

After luncheon, Tom asked Carson if there was more work to be done upstairs, but the latter responded saying that there was none Tom had to bother with, as it would just be the volunteer nurses and maids making up the beds. Knowing that Sybil would want to help with that, Tom went back to the garage to work and to look forward to the ride to the hospital after dinner, which would now likely be their only opportunity to be alone that day.

As the arrangements for the convalescent home were being finalized with the Army, Tom and Sybil had talked about how it would affect their time together. There would be many more people about, which made for more potential witnesses to catch them in an unguarded moment—but it also meant that Sybil would be one of a team of nurses and could more easily slip away to the garage unnoticed. When she couldn't be found, her family would always assume she was working, if not at the hospital, then in some other corner of the house. They would still have to be very careful, but they agreed that among a crowd it would be easier to hide in plain sight.

The afternoon crept by slowly. Tom tightened the bolts in the engines of both cars, cleaned his tools and swept the garage floor. It was close to teatime and having done everything possible to pass time for the last few hours, he decided to go up to the servants hall again, rather than take his tea in the cottage.

He'd only just walked in when Carson handed him the letter.

Just like that, the warm feeling that he'd been nurturing all day fought against the anger and dread that was now threatening to consume him. Without bothering with tea, Tom headed back to the garage. He could have opened it but what would be the point. He knew what it said.

It was a fruitless war being waged by men who considered the lives of the poor lads they sent to the front like they were tin soldiers. Tom had pledged, the day that the war had started—a day two years ago so fondly remembered not for the fateful announcement but for the feel of a small gloved hand in his—that he would not fight.

But what could he do now? If it were up to him, he'd run away or make some plan to humiliate the king whose men had killed his cousin—the very king who was calling him into his service now, never mind that he had no right. But what Tom would do wasn't just up to him any more. It was up to him and his wife.

**XXX**

Upstairs, Sybil had worked with the maids and the other nurses through teatime. Throughout the afternoon her mother continued her hand-wringing over what would happen to life as the Crawleys knew it under this new regime—Isobel's regime to be precise.

After the work was finished, Sybil headed upstairs. She'd have to change for dinner, despite the fact that she'd be going to the hospital—and therefore would have to change right back into her nursing uniform—immediately after. For reasons that Sybil found terribly silly, her mother had chosen to put her foot down at wearing her uniform at the dinner table. It was an illogical rule, of course, but neither was there logic in arguing against giving all the space that was necessary to men wounded from war and here was her mother doing that very thing.

As she changed, Sybil thought about a conversation that she had had with Edith in the parlor, after her mother and Mary had gone up to change themselves. Edith expressed being envious of Sybil's having something to do. In the moment, Sybil rather blithely told Edith to find a talent and use it to help others, as if that would be the most natural thing in the world for Edith to do. Looking back on the conversation, however, Sybil realized that the idea of finding something to do, as simple a concept as that was, would be entirely foreign to Edith and other women of their rank. Sybil had never shied away from pursuing things that interested her, but it hadn't been all that long ago that she had been in the same position Edith found herself in now—wanting desperately to contribute and feel useful and having no avenue by which to achieve that.

Sybil had not been a nurse or wife for all that long, but the fulfillment she found in both was such that she couldn't remember life before. Indeed, she did not want to remember. She would always be fond of her childhood and her family, but this was the way that she had always been meant to live.

_Perhaps_ , Sybil thought, _Edith's crisis of confidence this afternoon will turn out to be the spark she needs to realize that there is more to life than sitting in the drawing room and waiting for something to happen._

**XXX**

Despite the activity throughout the house during the day, dinner turned out to be a quiet affair. The whole family had been exhausted, some physically some only emotionally so, by the events of the day and the realization that there was no going back. The wounded officers, the hospital staff, the war itself was intruding upon Downton and would continue to for the foreseeable future. There was no getting around it.

After Carson led the women from the dining room to the small library, where they would now be gathering after dinner, Sybil went right upstairs to change. She wasn't due at the hospital for another hour, but her family had finally stopped questioning when she left them to go do her work, something Sybil was particularly grateful for as it allowed her extra time with Tom before she made it into the hospital. On her way upstairs she asked Carson to call for the motor, and there was Tom, standing just outside the door waiting for her, when she came back downstairs dressed and ready.

He didn't even have to look at her for Sybil to know something was wrong.

She looked into his eyes, worried, as she held his hand to step into the car.

"When we've left the house," he said quietly, as he closed the door once she was inside the motor and seated.

They were only just past the gates of the house, when he stopped the car. They both stepped out and before Sybil could ask anything, he held the letter out to her.

"No!" She said, tears welling in her eyes. "No, Tom, it must be something else! Ireland was not included in the conscription law."

"I'm not in Ireland, am I?" He said, his voice cracking.

Sybil finally took the envelope and opened it.

_NOTICE OF CALL AND TO APPEAR FOR PHYSICAL EXAMINATION_ _  
_ _To: Thomas L. Branson,_ _  
_ _Address: Downton Abbey, Downton, Yorkshire_ _  
_ _You are hereby notified that pursuant to the Military Service Bill of 1916, you are called for military service of His Majesty's Army._

There was more to read, but no need to do so. They both knew the score. They looked into each other's eyes again and without another word stepped forward into each other's arms. Their tears mingled as they kissed, for the first time that day, wishing that the magic of their kisses could take them where life were not so unfair.

The war had given them this life and their happiness together.

Now, it seemed, this war would take it all away again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per the all knowing Wikipedia, the UK's conscription law of 1916 didn't apply to Ireland—a decision that was taken for political reasons. The Irish were included in a bill in 1918 that led to the conscription crisis of 1918 that boosted support for an independent Ireland. Presumably, then, Tom was drafted because he lived in England, not because he was Irish.


	5. Chapter 5

 

**December 1916**

_Tom has always found Christmas at Downton to be a peculiar exercise. This year, it's down right torturous, not because standing in a line in the saloon waiting to be acknowledged and condescended to by the family is as stiff and unmemorable a ritual as ever, but because she's only a few feet away from him, smiling to herself a smile only he recognizes as special and unable to meet his eyes for fear of giving everything away._

_His future wife, Sybil Crawley._

_He omits the title when he thinks of her and has for sometime because she doesn't need it to be a person of worth. Seeing as it stands for a category of people who live a useless and frivolous existence, the title is_ beneath _her._

_Sybil Crawley, soon to be Sybil Branson._

_He can hardly believe it even now. It's been a day since she stepped into the garage and called out his name, his given name, to tell him that she would be making his dreams come true. They have not spoken since and likely won't now, but when it's his turn to step forward and accept his present from the family (a silver tie pin), she looks up briefly and their eyes meet and the love shining from her eyes is gift enough. After the staff are dismissed, they have their feast in the servants hall, and though Tom joins them for the meal, he doesn't linger for any further merrymaking. He returns to his cottage and tries to read and rest for the remainder of the day, but he can't concentrate on anything for thoughts of her and of the future._

_Eventually, those thoughts land on what exactly they are going to do._

_How will they tell her family? Will they tell her family? Will they runaway? What about her nursing course?_

_That last question gives Tom pause. She wants so much to contribute and learn how to do a job—and he very much wants the same for her—but surely a marriage against her family's wishes now would derail those plans._

_And once the family knows, he will be all but unemployable in England, so certain Tom is of the lengths to which Lord Grantham would go to ensure that no one with whom he has even a nebulous connection would hire him._

_Tom is excited by the prospect of returning to Ireland, likely their eventual path, and of doing more for independence than reading about it in the newspapers, but would she want to go?_

_Would his family accept an aristocratic woman as his wife? Would his church agree to marry them?_

_So many uncertainties run through Tom's mind, but his will or desire never wavers. She wants to marry him, and they will marry, no matter the obstacles. Tom isn't sure how or why but just as he is sure of his own feelings, he doesn't doubt, despite all these questions, that Sybil's won't waver either. He might have doubted whether asking her to marry him was a good idea on the drive back from York after his failed proposal, but the letter and her voice, her eyes in that small moment—_ Tom? _—anchor him like nothing else in his life ever has. He has read the letter so many times he's lost count, each reading of it is like a first kiss._

_And when he arrives at that particular question, all worries are gone for the night._

_What will it be like to kiss her?_

**XXX**

_The day after Christmas, Tom nods nonchalantly when one of the housemaids comes to the garage to let him know he'll be driving Lady Sybil back to York that afternoon._

_He wonders briefly whether her sisters will want to deliver her to the college and if he could stand to be in the motor with her so close again but unable to so much as look at her. Driving her with her sisters present three days ago was hard enough, and at that time, he didn't know of the letter she was planning on giving him. Thankfully, today, when he drives up to the front of the house, she's there alone with her mother, who is not dressed for an outing._

_Sybil's hand feels warm through her glove as Tom helps her in, and even though she doesn't turn to look at him, he notes a distinct flush of anticipation in her cheeks. As he walks around to the front of the motor, he hears her say goodbye to her mother through the window. Cora bemoans the fact that Sybil won't be home to ring in the new year or celebrate the twelfth night with her family._

_"You'll be all right without me mama," Sybil says._

_"I know this is what you've chosen dear," Cora replies, "I just wish it wouldn't take you so far away from us."_

" _No matter the distance that divides, family is never far away. You know that."_

_Tom hears a thickness in Sybil's voice that suggests Sybil is saying more than her mother will hear._

" _Drive safely, Branson," Cora says, and finally she steps away and they head off._

_When they've passed the gates, Sybil says quietly, "Don't stop until we're well past the village."_

_He feels her hand on his shoulder and turns to see her sitting in the same spot she'd been three days ago. There's clear excitement in her face, and as he turns back to face the road, he thinks she might be crying from happiness. She squeezes his shoulder once more and returns to the backseat of the motor._

_They drive quietly for about twenty minutes, both too nervous for words. It's a marked contrast to their usual drives together, but both understand that this isn't the usual drive. Tom turns onto a dirt drive that he knows leads nowhere and drives for 30 yards or so, away from the eyes of passersby on the road. He shuts off the engine and turns to face her. They don't know how long they look at each other. It's only several seconds but feels longer. Then, as if the strings holding them down have been cut suddenly, they both scramble out of the vehicle and into each other's arms. They mix laughter and tears and hold each other so tightly, Tom lifts Sybil off the ground. When her feet touch down again, she pulls away slightly and her hands move from around his neck to cradle his face. Knowing that he is waiting for her, she closes her eyes and leans in, guiding his face toward hers with her hands._

_The first kiss is soft and chaste, as is the second. With the third, long-repressed desire joins deep abiding love, and their kiss deepens and intensifies, and though Sybil's feet remain firmly on the ground, she feels as if she is floating, spinning every which way, but still holding him close._

_They never want it to end, but it does finally, many minutes later. They sit under the shade of a tree nearby and talk about their future, distant and immediate, in between more kisses. He is surprised when she says she won't tell her family until after they have married. She doesn't want to be cast off and believes that ultimately she won't be. Still, she fears the lengths to which they will go to keep them apart if she announces her love for him before it's been formalized._

_With a sigh, he says, "It won't be a proper wedding. Not the way you deserve or may have hoped for in the past."_

_Sybil smiles at his concern. "All I've ever hoped for is to marry a man who loves me enough to let me be myself, which you do. That is as much as I have always wanted and all I deserve. I don't care where or how, so long as it's with you."_

_Tom offers her an idea and promises to meet her during her three-day leave, even if he has to give his notice to do it. He doesn't believe it will come to that. He's been a faithful employee for years now and not once has asked to be given leave. And he feels certain that if Carson hedges, Mrs. Hughes, always so kind to Tom, will push Carson over the edge._

_Finally, knowing Tom can't be too late returning to the house, they reluctantly get back into the motor—with Sybil beside him until just before they arrive at the college—and complete their journey to York._

_When Tom makes his return, few seem to have noticed that he's been gone longer than was necessary for the journey. That night, in the servants hall, he pulls Carson aside and makes his request for leave between January 3rd and the 7th._

" _I know it's great inconvenience, Mr. Carson, and I wouldn't ask if I didn't feel some urgency."_

" _And what exactly is the matter, Mr. Branson?" Carson asks, raising his hefty eyebrows in curiosity._

" _My brother is ill," Tom answers. "His wife has written, and though she doesn't think it's life-threatening, it has been some years now since I've seen him. I just want to make sure he's all right."_

" _You couldn't go all the way to Ireland in four days, could you?"_

" _Oh, he doesn't live there anymore," Tom says, casually. "Both of us have been on this side of the Irish Sea for years."_

" _Where is he, then?" Carson asks._

" _Scotland."_

 

**June 1917**

Tom barely slept that night, and Sybil could tell when he picked her up from the hospital early the following morning.

He'd known the moment that the letter had been placed in his hands what he would do. He had tried to talk himself out of it. He had tried to consider his alternatives, but there were none. He was certain this was the only path he could take in good conscience.

Whether Sybil would agree with him—of that he was less sure. He hated that he'd been put in this position, that he'd be cutting their marriage short, that he'd likely never live the life to which both had been looking forward since they'd married. A life and love in the light of day, no hiding or pretending they were anything other than what they were: husband and wife. He so longed for it, even if he was happy within this odd existence in which their secret love was like a shared treasure.

But there was no other way, and after he'd picked her up and driven to just outside the gates of the house, he told her as much.

"I'm going to be an conscientious objector," he said firmly, in almost the same spot on the side of the road where they'd stopped the night before. This time, there was no tearful embrace, only frustration and, despite efforts on both their parts to keep it at bay, anger.

"But they'll put you in prison!" Sybil exclaimed, trying to calm herself and keep her voice down, but failing.

"I'd rather prison than the Dardanelles," Tom replied, feeling defeated.

"But what about me? What about us? What do you think is going to happen when you tell them you won't fight?"

"What do you think will happen to me if I do fight, Sybil?" He snapped back. "I'll be sent to the front and die an undignified death at the bottom of a muddy trench, having given my life for no cause but the whims of men I hate, to make no mention of my dignity!"

"We can't have the kind of life we want to have if you go to prison," Sybil insisted. "I know the risk that you run if you go, but—"

"No, Sybil, I don't think you do," Tom said.

This sparked Sybil's ire more than anything else he'd ever said. "What?! Excuse me, Tom, but I have a closer view than you of the casualties of this war. I see what these men have gone through every day, so don't tell me I don't know the risks!"

"You see what happens to the _officers_ ," Tom said quietly, not able to meet her eyes. "The men who come here, believe it or not, have it easier at least in some measure. I'm not saying they haven't sacrificed, but this . . ." he stopped at gestured toward the house and the convalescent home it now housed, just down the road. "If something happened, this isn't where _I_ would go. If something happened, I'd be the most likely to be left on the field to die."

"But you're a survivor," Sybil said, stepping to him once more, eyes watering again. "You could make it, Tom, and when you'd return, it would be as a soldier—it would elevate you in my family's eyes. You'd not be merely their chauffeur. They'd see you in a different light. It would change things for us, don't you see that?"

Tom rubbed his face with his hands. "Sybil, I love the way you view world, that you cling to its possibilities with no trace of cynicism, but a uniform of a different kind isn't going to change things for your father and how he'll view me—not as much as you think it might."

Sybil crossed her arms and held herself tightly. "And he'll be persuaded by you being in prison, will he?"

"So you'd rather me dead in pursuit of glory that will never come, than alive but estranged from you?"

"Of course not!" She said, and he could see the yearning and sorrow in her eyes. "But fighting doesn't equal certain death. Why won't you cling to that hope, when it's all we have left?"

Tom's shoulders drooped and he stepped forward and enveloped her with his arms. "Love, I know that any hope of your parents accepting what we've done will be gone if I refuse to fight, but I don't see another way. I can't flee—I won't do that without you, and if we left together, I'd just be putting you in harm's way. I don't know whether they'd put me away for a few years or the whole of my life, but I can't fight and you know _why_."

He pulled away and tilted her face up to his, keeping his eyes on her as he spoke. "I cannot fight, not this war and not for this king. To bear the arms that killed my cousin in the name of a monarchy that has bullied my people and nearly starved us out of existence would be to die in spirit in, if not in fact. I could go fight, but if I returned I wouldn't be the man I am now. I wouldn't be the man you married, so even if a bullet doesn't kill me, the betrayal to everything I stand for would. The person you love will survive in prison. On the fields of France, he's as good as gone. I need to hold on to who I am, and this how I will do that."

"And what will I have to hold on to?" Sybil said, weeping into his shoulder.

"You'll know that I stood up for what I believed was right. Maybe you can be proud of that."

"I just wish it didn't have to be like this."

"Me too," he replied. After standing there for several minutes, waiting for her sobs to calm, he said, "We should go."

Sybil nodded and pulled away, but when he moved to open the door for her, she said, "I think I'll walk from here."

"Sybil—"

"I just need time . . . to get used to the idea that everything I wanted is gone."

Too tired to argue, he nodded and watched her walk away and back toward the house that represented the life he thought he'd be rescuing her from. He realized in that moment that the letter that would confine him to a cell would be confining her, in a different way, as well.

**XXX**

They didn't see each other the rest of that day, and as the hours wore on, the absence—not dictated by necessity as per usual, but by design—wore them both down. By the end of the day, Tom wondered whether he had asked too much of her: To bear the burden of his political passions when for her, inexperienced and ill educated as she was (at least so far as the evils of empire were concerned), the occupation of Ireland by the English was a rather benign reality. He'd once told her how very wrong she was to see it that way and how his family, through the death of his cousin during the Easter Rising and other less obvious ways had paid a heavy toll. She'd listened with a sensitive ear and expressed the righteous empathy and fervor of the newly converted. But despite the fact that the war had grown the width of her world considerably, that world remained relatively small.

To confront a situation that forced upon her a series of unappealing choices and no positive alternative or guarantee of a desired outcome was something Sybil had never really had to do before. When balanced with the ease of the life she'd lived before taking a chance on him, he couldn't really blame her for reacting angrily when faced with the realization that life doesn't always give us what we want. Still, he needed for her to see the position he was in, and he had faith she would eventually, once she got her frustration out of her system.

Sybil, for her part, knew that her reaction had been selfish, focused entirely on how his call-up affected her, not the anguish he might have been feeling on receiving such an order from a government that had already done him so wrong. Other wives had managed to endure this war, but when faced with the predicament of losing him, she'd reverted back to the childish girl whose scheming had almost gotten him sacked.

That morning, as she'd walked away from him and the car, she knew she was wrong to do so, but couldn't stop herself. That night, she tossed and turned in her bed until it was near midnight, when she realized that for the first time since she'd returned from York after they'd been married, they had gone a whole day without a kiss.

She cried again in anticipation of all such days they'd have to face now, but resolved to cherish the ones they'd have left. She watched the hands of the clock as they crept along slowly until they marked 1 o'clock. Confident that the house would be asleep now, she put on her grey coat and riding boots and headed to what she now considered _their_ cottage.

Bursting in, she saw that he'd fallen sleep on the armchair next to the fire, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his feet.

Smiling sadly, she knelt by his feet and ran her fingers through his hair several times. She leaned down to kiss him, which finally served to wake him up.

"What are—"

"I am proud," she whispered. "I will be."

"What are you talking about?" he asked sitting up, still feeling disoriented but heartened that she'd come to him.

"This morning, before I walked away like a child, you said that maybe I could be proud of knowing that you stood up for what you believed in."

Tom held his breath.

"I am always proud of you," Sybil said. "And I'll be proud to be your wife when you fight, not for the king, but for yourself. I'm sorry for how I behaved this morning."

"I am too," he said, pulling her onto his lap.

"You have no reason to be."

"I do," he said. "I was thinking only of my fight, when you have your own to wage with your family, who'll want to keep you here in the confines of a life that is not worthy of you or your talents."

"I'll manage—we'll both manage. We married on our own terms, and that's how we'll continue to live, no matter what."

With those words, Tom felt the burden that he had been carrying since he'd received the letter the day before lift, if only slightly. They kissed, slowly, languidly, knowing now important it was that they treasure these precious moments while they had them.

Later, after making love on a blanket by the fire, they held each other close and reveled in the quiet intimacy the little cottage afforded them. Sybil eventually broke the silence, asking, "When will you tell them?"

"The Army?"

Sybil nodded against his chest.

"I'll go to the medical, I'll report for duty, and when on parade, I'll march out front and I'll shout it loud and clear. And if that doesn't make the newspapers, then I'm a monkey's uncle."

Sybil was quiet for a moment but then erupted in laughter—a beautiful, healing sound that buoyed Tom's spirits. They both laughed for several minutes at life and its absurdities.

Several minutes later, after they'd both caught their breath she said, "All right, then. After the medical but before you report, that's when we'll tell my parents."

Tom leaned down and pulled her mouth to his again. "You have a deal."


	6. Chapter 6

 

**January 1917**

_Standing on the platform at the train station in York early on a crisp January morning, Sybil takes a deep breath in an effort to calm her nerves. Tom's train is late, which is making her all the more nervous. Thankfully, though, she's not alone. Caroline has come with her, and her company has made the wait marginally more bearable._

_"Thank you for being here," Sybil says looking over at her roommate._

_Caroline smirks. "Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss this for the world!"_

_Sybil can't help but laugh. "And what exactly makes you so eager?"_

_"Isn't it obvious, darling? I'm here to get a look at him. After all, when the likes of you decides to elope, he's got to be quite the looker."_

_Sybil furrows her brow. "You don't really think me so superficial, do you?"_

_"Of course, I don't Sybil," Caroline answers with a roll of her eyes. "I'm trying to make you laugh. You're a bundle of nerves right now."_

_Sybil sighs. "I am. I can't help it—and his train being late isn't helping_ me _."_

_Caroline looks at her for a long moment. "Are you having doubts?"_

_Sybil turns to her abruptly. "What!? No!"_

_"It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if you were," Caroline says putting her hand on Sybil's shoulder. "Just because you've agreed to marry him doesn't mean you have to do so right this moment."_

_Sybil smiles, grateful for Caroline's concern for her. "I know, but I'm not nervous about being married to Tom. If I'm honest, I've never felt so sure of something in my life. If anything, I suppose I'm just anxious to have it done with, so that no matter what happens when I tell my parents, they can't do anything to keep us apart."_

_Caroline narrows her eyes playfully. "Is it the marriage you're looking forward to or what comes after?"_

_Sybil laughs but can't stop a sudden blush from coming over her cheeks._

_Caroline asks another question, this one more serious than the last. "Will you be coming back here?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"After you wed, will you return to finish the course or go straight home to Downton to tell your parents?"_

_Sybil bites her lip. "I'd like to come back. He wrote to tell me when he'd be coming, but I didn't dare write back so we haven't discussed it. We haven't discussed much beyond the fact we want to get married." Sybil pauses, frowning. "I should come back. Marrying Tom aside, I still want to do my part for the war effort, and I'd like to have a job later on, when it's all over."_

_Caroline laughs, a bit humorlessly. "You'll_ need _one more like," she says. "I hope you're ready for what's coming, because none of it will be easy—least of all living without all the things you're used to."_

_Sybil stiffens slightly. "I'm fully aware that my life to this point has not prepared me for much, but that acknowledgment and my willingness to learn and to bear whatever challenges may come will get me through. To say nothing of Tom's support."_

_Noticing the sharpness in Sybil's tone, Caroline's own voice softens. "There's your stubbornness as well," she says, hoping Sybil understands the apology intended in the joke. "A valuable trait when confronting life's obstacles, if ever there was one."_

_Sybil smiles—a smile that turns into a grin when the rumbling of the coming train can be heard in the distance, followed by a sharp whistle. "Finally!" she exclaims._

_She and Caroline step forward and move nearer to where the passengers will disembark before more passengers step on and the train continues on in its journey south. As people begin filing out, Sybil turns to Caroline and says quietly, "I know what I'm doing seems foolish to you and to everyone else, but the truth is my life to this point has been nothing but foolishness—foolishness and frivolity that have kept my soul unsettled for as long as I can remember. Tom makes me feel_ less _foolish. That's an odd endorsement for marriage perhaps, but it's what I want, someone who understands me and believes I could lead a useful life . . . or rather, that we could live out our aspirations together. Does that seem terribly insensible?"_

_"Yes," Caroline says with a sigh. "But then I've never been in love." She takes Sybil's hand and squeezes it. "You make it sound as if it's actually worth all the trouble."_

_Sybil smiles. Then, looking past Caroline, she spots him among the sea of people coming and going this way and that. "There he is!" She says, her voice catching. She realizes that she has not anticipated what he'd look like in this moment. He is out of livery—_ of course, he is, _she thinks_ — _and looking more like her future than even she'd allowed herself to imagine to this point._

_"Oh, my!" Caroline exclaims. "A prize worthy of giving up the family jewels, to be sure."_

_Sybil rolls her eyes at her, but continues moving toward him. And when their eyes meet, her feet—quite of her own accord—begin to shuffle much more urgently through the crowd toward him. They come together into a tight embrace, practically jumping into each other's arms. Sybil knows deep down that they shouldn't make a scene—she's not so far from home, after all—but in this moment, the risk of being seeing by someone who knows her parents is not enough to dampen her joy._

_When Caroline catches up to them, Sybil introduces her to Tom. Greetings and congratulations are offered, and the roommates say their goodbyes._

_Caroline whispers to Sybil as they hug, "Remember everything I told you."_

_Sybil blushes slightly again, thinking back to their conversation the evening prior about what the wedding night may be like. Caroline offered all she understood of the matter, which was just about all there was to know, and Sybil welcomed the knowledge without ever asking or questioning Caroline about how she came by it. They'd learned plenty about human bodies and their functions in their nurse's training, but even Sybil knew enough to know that, with regard to this subject, no medical text could replace experience._

_Sybil gives Caroline one more squeeze before Caroline says her last goodbyes and leaves the lovers to their journey. Once she is out of sight, they turn toward one another, both beaming._

_"Have you bought your ticket?" Tom asks. "I only paid for the one down to York—"_

_"Hedging your bets?" Sybil asks, with a note of teasing in her voice._

_"No!" he says tickling her waist and making her squirm away from him in the process. "I just thought it would seem odd . . . draw attention if I bought one going south, and then another going north again."_

_Sybil smiles. "Actually, I did pay already." She opens her small handbag and takes out two tickets. Tom takes them and frowns when he sees that she's reserved a private compartment. "I know what you're thinking," she says before he has the chance to speak, "but I've thought it through, and truly, Tom, we have no choice. The train is stopping at Downton again—and even if it weren't, there's Easingwold, Dalton and Thirsk to consider. What if Carson has an errand or Mrs. Hughes? Everyone in the county knows my family. I just don't want to risk being seeing. Once we arrive at Newcastle and head for Scotland, we can be frugal again."_

_Tom sighs, and without realizing he's doing it looks around to see if anyone is watching them, but nobody is, the platform has cleared and the train will be off again in a few minutes. Sybil notices his sudden nerves and takes his hand. Seeing a bench at the end of the platform, where the awning ends, she leads him there._

_"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I suppose you're right."_

_Sybil smiles and leans into his shoulder. They sit quietly for a moment, both contemplating the step they are about to take. Tom looks down at the fine leather gloves covering her fingers. They are in stark contrast to the faded dark grey wool of his trousers on which her hands now rest. This is his best suit, and though several years old, it's in what he would consider good condition. But everything on his person looks aged . . ._ cheap _. . . compared with her attire. She seems to sense that there's something wrong and she brings up one of her gloved hands to tilt his chin back toward her._

_"Is everything all right?" She asks quietly._

_"Are you sure this is what you want?"_

_"Of course, I'm sure. I said I wanted to marry you and I meant it, Tom."_

_Tom's eyes sparkle as she says the words. "I know you did. I wasn't speaking so much about our getting married as I was, well . . ._ eloping _. We could just go back to Ireland. Have a wedding, of sorts—a story that we'd not be embarrassed to tell our children."_

_"I think I would be very happy to tell any son or daughter of mine that when we decided to get married, we went on a secret adventure."_

_Tom laughs heartily at her words. "I'm afraid your family won't see it that way, nor mine, really."_

_"That's because they don't see me."_

_"Their fault."_

_Tom looks over his shoulder again, but decides he doesn't care if anyone is looking at them or not. He leans into her and kisses her so deeply and passionately, Sybil is glad she is already sitting down because the emotion welling in her would have swept her quite off her feet. They are interrupted by the loud whistle of the north-bound now coming into the station._

_"Let's get on with it then," he says, his voice loud to be heard over the commotion._

_"Let's do!" Sybil says as the engine rolls slowly to a stop next to them._

_Without another word, he picks up the small bag he'd brought with him and her suitcase and leads her back toward the train. In several minutes, they are inside the first-class car and sitting alone. She slips her hand into his and suddenly the privacy is the sweetest gift there is, because she uses the hand holding his to pull him toward her and gently brushes her lips with his. Tom meets her eagerly, and for a while they are barely conscious of the fact that they are on a moving train. Eventually, they rein in their desires and Sybil settles comfortably in Tom arms and they begin to talk, first about their plan and whether it'll come off, about Kieran and Tom's family, about hers and what their reaction will be and, as the blurry scenery races past the window, about their dreams, the future and all they have to look forward to, as eager as only two people can be who are young and in love and feeling like the world is at their feet._

_At one point, overwhelmed with emotion, Tom shifts so he may look Sybil in the face. "I don't think I've ever felt happier," he says._

_Sybil smiles. "I know I haven't."_

**June 1917**

From the day he received his call-up papers, it was a week before Tom would be required to report for his medical exam, which he had to take at army offices in York. So for as long as they could, he and Sybil continued to behave as if their world wasn't going to be upended. Sybil found every excuse to order the motor or visit the garage that she could. Because Tom's schedule was under more scrutiny than Sybil's, he could not vary his routine as easily as she, but even so he found ways to leave her notes and "volunteer" to help the convalescing officers inside, if for no other purpose than to be in the same room with her. In the first six nights, they managed to make love five times, each time more desperate and passionate than the last. When Sybil snuck down to his cottage each night, she wondered whether this would be when she was finally discovered, but now when the thought crossed her mind, it didn't scare her. She resolved that discovery was no longer the worst that could happen to them.

She'd never been one for prayer, but after, as they lay tangled together on Tom's small bed, she would pull his head into the crook of her neck to let him weep silently for the life that before his call-up had seemed so close and so _possible_ , and she would close her eyes and ask whatever deity was willing to answer that this not be the last time they were together like this. Sybil remained steadfast and stoic in his presence, offering whatever support and strength she could, but on the evening before his exam, the dam broke.

Given a short break during her shift at the hospital, Sybil stepped outside and walked to the alley. Once alone, she instinctively reached for the apron pocket where she kept her cigarettes. She took one out and rolled it between her fingers before throwing it on the ground and erupting, almost instantaneously, into sobs. She didn't know how long she'd been crying when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She tried to wipe her face quickly, but there was no hiding what she'd been doing. When she turned and saw that it was Agnes, however, she let out a sigh of relief that quickly became a sob again and collapsed into Agnes' arms. Agnes was surprised to see Sybil, normally the picture of composure, so distraught. Without questions, though, Agnes walked Sybil down to a bench at the edge of the lane and waited for her to calm down.

It took her several minutes, but eventually Sybil's breathing evened out, and looking at her friend, she said, "Is your beau, Roger . . .is he all right?"

Agnes laughed, a bit puzzled that these would be the first words out of Sybil's mouth after finding her in such a state. "Um . . . yes . . . I had a letter just a few days ago, the first in weeks. He injured his shoulder at Bulleport, amid the offensive in Arras and he was moved to a hospital not far from there. It was a surface wound—nothing serious, so they didn't see a need for him to come all the way home, and since he can drive they assigned him to transfer supplies back and forth from Calais and the front. He doesn't know how long he'll be doing that, but he's not dodging bullets anymore . . . for the time being at least."

Sybil smiled. "I'm glad."

"Me too, though I wish I could see the injury myself to determine whether it truly is nothing to worry about."

"How do you stand it?" Sybil asked.

Agnes looked at Sybil with a sad smile. "I'm not sure that I do it very well. I have no choice, and there have been many days that I've cried myself to sleep. I've thought about going to France myself, to volunteer there, just for the sake of being nearer to him, even if I couldn't see him everyday. But I don't want to add to his worries, or my parents'—and anyway, I don't know that it would help. The heart wants what the heart wants, as they say, and anything close to that but still short wouldn't be enough and would make the absence of what we really want sting all the more."

Sybil nodded and looked down.

"I'm sorry," Agnes said. "That didn't sound very hopeful or encouraging."

"War isn't the time to soften the blow," Sybil said. After a long, deep breath, she smiled at Agnes, then looked down to her apron and took out a small handkerchief from her pocket. As she wiped what was left of her tears, she added, "And you've no need to apologize. You're the one who is enduring an unwanted separation from the person you love, not me."

"Aren't you, though?"

Sybil turned to look at Agnes, brow furrowed.

Agnes bit her lip, wondering if her assumption had overstepped the boundary of their acquaintance. "I suppose I thought the tears were for someone in particular. . ."

Sybil looked away again but said nothing.

"Nurse Crawley—"

"Sybil, please, now that you've seen me in such a state."

Agnes smiled. "All right, then." Agnes paused as if second-guessing whether it was advisable to say what she wanted to say. Watching Sybil's posture and determining that Sybil needed her, she said, "Sybil, if there is something that you . . . haven't told anyone about, but maybe sharing it with someone would help . . . I wouldn't presume that you consider me a very close friend, but I could be . . . if that's what you would like, a confidant. I will keep your secret if telling it would unburden you of the sorrow you seem to be carrying today."

Sybil considered what Agnes had just said. Her secret marriage to Tom had never felt like a burden to her. It was a treasure she happily kept hidden in her heart, but everything was changing. Tom's call up, his plan to defy its orders and his subsequent conviction and incarceration—she intended to support him through all of it, no matter what her family said, but in her likely estrangement from her family, to whom could _she_ turn. She would lose the daily presence in her life of not just her husband, but her best friend, and she'd have to face his absence while having to confront familial disappointment in her choices as well as his—her father no doubt would have plenty to say of an Irishman's duties to the crown, never mind any an all previous injustices done by the government atop which that crown sat.

Agnes was right. Sybil needed someone.

"I'm married."

Agnes laughed uneasily. _Surely, she's joking._

Sybil's hand went to her neck and she pulled a thin gold chain out from under the collar of her uniform. She put the ring hanging on the chain between her fingers so Agnes could see it.

Realizing that Sybil was serious, Agnes brought her hand to her mouth. "His lordship doesn't know?"

Sybil shook her head.

"And he's been called up?"

Sybil nodded.

"How?"

"It was before I began working at the hospital. Just before, actually. We went to Scotland."

Agnes couldn't help but smirk. "So it's really true then, what they write in novels? "

Sybil laughed. "Yes and no. It's simpler than in England, but only by way of comparison. I'll admit that we gamed the system a bit. It's a legal marriage." Sybil stopped and thought for a second. "Well, I suppose if papa really wanted to, he'd find a way to undo it, but what would be the use? My good name and my virtue have long gone, and I'm only too happy to be rid of both."

Sybil's candor shocked Agnes, and Sybil noticed. "You _asked_ to be my confidant."

Agnes laughed. "So I did." After a moment, she asked, "So he's just gotten his papers?"

Sybil nodded. It wasn't so simple as that, but she didn't want to overwhelm Agnes with so many revelations all at once.

"And do you feel better, having said it aloud?" Agnes asked.

"I do, actually."

Agnes reached for Sybil's hand and squeezed it, "I wish there was some assurance I could offer, but I barely know what to tell _myself_. When the war began, and I'd just finished nursing college, I wondered whether the fighting would last long enough for me to garner any real experience. Selfish and naive to hope that what has turned out to be a seemingly interminable conflict wouldn't last long enough to suit my purposes."

"We're all guilty of wishing the world would bend to our will. I rather think my lot is more guilty of it than most."

"How so?"

"My grandmother has this silly saying that to be defeatist is to be middle class. We expect things to turn out just so because such is our wealth and influence that we can usually make things turn out just so. If you don't have such expectations, then you must lack the power to ensure the outcome you desire. It's a horrible way to view things—it makes me rather ashamed of being optimistic all the time."

"Well, you shouldn't be. Optimism isn't about our expectations, but our attitude when they are not met—and seeing the good in things as they are, even when all seems lost. I've made it this far, Sybil. I reckon we can see it through together."

Sybil smiled. If Agnes was lucky, her love would return, bruised but not broken. What Sybil was about to endure was different, and the end of the war, whenever that came, would likely only mark the beginning of her journey. Still, Sybil welcomed Agnes' show of solidarity, and her friendship.

**XXX**

"Are you still here, Mr. Branson?"

Tom suppressed a smirk at O'Brien's remark, as she came into the servants hall with Carson at her heels. Tom had been at Downton for years now, but the lady's maid still bristled when she saw him in the servants hall. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had never been ones to enforce the decree that the chauffeur had to remain in the garage or his cottage, but that didn't stop O'Brien from pointing out how incorrect she considered his presence. The other servants had likewise learned to ignore this particular gripe of hers, and the group who had gathered with Tom around the table awaiting dinner didn't bat an eye at her comment.

Carson himself put the matter to rest by asking Tom, "Why don't you stay and have something to eat?"

"Mr. Branson's been telling us the news from Russia," Ethel said.

"And what news is that?" Carson asked, sitting down at the head of the table. As he did so, Mrs. Patmore came into the room carrying in the day's stew.

"Kerensky's been made Prime Minister, but he won't go far enough for me," Tom answered, holding back his smile, knowing how little Carson thought of his political views. Aware of the grim days that lay ahead for him, Tom tried to take whatever enjoyment he could from his current life. One such pleasure was the knowledge that somewhere in the world, socialist forces, willed forward by the power of people, were in the process of upending a monarchy. The other was watching Carson's face tighten with ire as Tom argued against the class system Carson so revered—even if the matter of today's version of the conversation was a world away in Russia. "Lenin denounces the bourgeoisie along with the tsar," Tom continued. "He wants a people's revolution. That's what I'm waiting for. Won't be long now."

"And what happened to the tsar?" Carson asked gruffly.

"Imprisoned in the Alexander Palace with all his family," Tom answered.

"Oh, what a dreadful thing," Mrs. Patmore chimed in.

"They won't hurt them," Tom said. "Why would they?"

"To make an example," Anna offered.

"Give them some credit," Tom insisted. "This is a new dawn, a new age of government. No one wants to start it with the murder of a bunch of young girls."

"You don't know that," Lang piped in stiffly. "Nobody knows who will get killed when these things start. Look at her nephew. Shot for cowardice."

The mood in the room turned suddenly as the weight of Lang's words sank in. Tom's eyes went from the valet to Mrs. Patmore whose face was now a mix of grief and embarrassment.

Not seeming to notice (or care) on the shock he'd levied on those around him, Lang went on. "Who would've guessed that when he was saying hello to the neighbors, or kissing his mother goodnight."

At that moment, not realizing what she was stepping into, Daisy ran in from the kitchen. "Can you look at the crumble?" she asked Mrs. Patmore. "I think it should come out, but it's five minutes earlier than you said."

But Mrs. Patmore was too far gone. Without another word to the group, she ran out unable to contain her sobs as she did so.

All eyes went back to Lang, who for the first time realized that what the cook had told him in solidarity had also been said in confidence. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I never thought."

"You _should_ think, Mr. Lang," Mrs. Hughes said, standing up clearly annoyed that she'd have to talk Mrs. Patmore off a ledge just now instead of getting to enjoy her dinner. "You're not the only member of the walking wounded in this house."

Tom's eyes followed her as she went out of the room, then went back to Lang, who now sat remorseful, staring down at the place setting in front of him. Tom repeated Lang's words inside his own mind.

_Nobody knows who will get killed when these things start. Look at her nephew. Shot for cowardice._

_Shot for cowardice._

Tom swallowed as the weight of the words hit him.

_Shot for cowardice._

He wondered what exactly had been the young man's transgression. Had he deserted his post then been discovered again? Had he refused to fire a weapon?

Had he told them he wouldn't fight?

Tom stared at the table in front of him as he contemplated the possibility meeting the same fate. He'd assumed that the laws that demanded his service would take his freedom as punishment for his unwillingness to give it. He had not considered that they would take his life.

Daisy pushing a plate of food in his direction shook him from his reverie. She smiled at him as he took the place and cutlery she offered, and he hoped that his smile back did not seem as empty as it felt. Though he'd been keen on conversation when he'd come into the hall, and more so when Carson had joined them minutes ago, Tom and the rest of the group ate their dinner in relative silence. And when they were all done, they dispersed equally solemnly. Before heading back to his cottage, Tom asked Carson for a moment and the two men entered the butler's pantry, with Carson closing the door behind them.

"Let us hope, Mr. Branson, that whatever your revolution may bring, it will not be further violence and sorrow. I dare say the world has seen enough of it."

Tom nodded. He waited until Carson had made it around the side of his desk and sat down before saying anything.

"I told you last week about my call-up," Tom began. "As you'll remember I have my medical exam tomorrow in York. I'll be gone first thing."

"Ah, yes," Carson said with a sigh. "I mentioned it to his lordship only yesterday. He said you may take the motor."

Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise, which caused Carson to smile. "What's the matter, Mr. Branson, do you expect all nobility to be as tyrannical as the Russian tsar? Like all Englishmen, his lordship honors all service to king and country. He is a soldier in this war and as such is happy to offer you the opportunity to give of yourself to the cause with dignity."

"I should thank him," Tom said as plainly as he could. _Not that Carson would recognize sarcasm if it smacked him on the brow_ , he thought.

"You should," Carson replied.

"Well, then," Tom said standing. "I'll be off first thing in the morning."

With a muddle of thoughts on revolution, dignified service and firing squads, Tom slept fitfully that night and wished dearly that Sybil would wake him from his unpleasant slumber and hold him, as she had done all week, and reminded him that they were not beaten. That they'd face whatever was to come together. That she'd always be his wife. But on this of all possible nights, she'd been scheduled for an overnight shift. By the time she would be finished and headed home, he would be on his way to York—a journey that to this point held so many loaded memories for both of them. She'd tried to concoct a reason to go with him, but in the end, he knew he had to go alone. Eventually, once he was cleared and given his orders, they'd have to talk and make a plan as to how exactly to reveal the truth to her parents, but there was no need to rush things.

It was just a medical exam, not the end of the world.

Certainly, not the end of his.

Not quite. Not yet.

**XXX**

The exam had been as he'd expected, relatively quick, painless and uneventful. When he was back at Downton later that same afternoon, Sybil sought him out in the garage and grilled him on all the questions he was asked and all the tests he had to undergo as part of the examination. She was puzzled as to why they would ask so many questions about the heart and his breathing, when a stethoscope would reveal such details to the physician, but both shrugged it off to thoroughness. She was also surprised that he hadn't been immediately told when and where to report, having some familiarity with the procedures of the Army at this point, but they both welcomed an extra couple of days not to think about what came next.

When the letter finally arrived, Tom waited to open it until she could sneak away to the cottage. They were both practically sobbing as they made love with the still unopened letter sitting on the night-table beside his bed, believing this to be the last time they would both be truly free. They had no preventatives, but they didn't care. Loving each other freely with no thought to the consequences was no longer a risk, it was a privilege with an end date. They'd taken so many risks already, in just choosing to love each other and to marry as they had. Risk-taking was, in a way, all that was left.

It was almost time for Sybil to return to the house—"Does it even matter if I do?"—when she finally sat up from the bed and reached for the envelope. It was thin, containing a single sheet, and as she ran her fingers along the edge to open it, despite all the nerves and emotions that had been boiling inside of her the previous week—indeed, the previous hour—she felt a strange sense of calm. She unfolded the page and perused its contents for several seconds before jumping out of the bed with a loud gasp.

"What?" Tom asked, alarmed and sitting up quickly.

Sybil turned and Tom saw tears streaming down her face to her lips, which were curved into a beautiful smile. "You don't have to go!"

"WHAT!?"

Tom scrambled out of bed, practically ripped the paper from Sybil's hand and immediately began reading aloud.

"Dear Mr. Branson, We regret to inform you that our medical team has declared you unfit for duty. You have been diagnosed with a mitral valve prolapse, which is causing a pansystolic murmur. This is a condition of the heart that may have been unknown to you. It does not put you in immediate danger. However, as it effects your cardiac and respiratory systems, it could render you unable to meet the demands of combat. You do not need to take further action at this time and are hereby relieved of your responsibilities to His Majesty's Army."

Speechless as to this turn of events, Tom looked at Sybil who was standing in the middle of the room, naked, laughing, crying and glowing with love, relief and happiness. She immediately jumped on him, knocking him down onto the bed again.

As they came together again, they both wondered how a world that should be so set against them, could manage to be so kind time and again.


	7. Chapter 7

 

**January 1917**

_Kieran and Elizabeth Branson first met in Glasgow, where Elizabeth was originally from. Kieran had traveled there years before in search of work. Like his younger brother, Kieran had worked in service in Ireland, but being ten years older than Tom, he'd been at it longer, so he had much more saved up and was much less inclined to continue to work "driving old bitties to tea," as he put it. He longed to be his own boss._

_So when Tom accepted the job with the Crawleys, happy to take the generous salary and enjoy the free time to read that chauffeuring afforded him, Kieran went further north, grateful to have the wherewithal to be pickier about what he would do for a living. He ended up in Glasgow working in a small garage as a mechanic, which he did for several months before meeting Elizabeth at the pub her family ran near the flat he shared with three others. Several months after that, on the heels of a whirlwind courtship, they were married. Eventually, they settled in Dumfries, where Elizabeth's brother was sheriff and where Kieran could afford to open his own garage. There the demand for work on cars was not as great as in Glasgow, but there were plenty of farmers whose equipment needed constant servicing. It was a much different life than Kieran had imagined he would live when he had crossed the border into Scotland, but it was a good life._

_That Dumfries is about twenty-five miles due west of Gretna Green is something that Tom is grateful for as he and Sybil enter into Scotland on the train—and indeed something he will continue be grateful for years later, for as much as she continues to insist that she likes the idea of eloping, Tom is glad that their union, however elicit it must be, does not have to involve that particularly tawdry cliché. They chose to come to Scotland on account of Tom's connections as well as the more relaxed Scottish marriage laws, but Tom knows that Kieran will have an opinion on the matter—and not a positive one._

_Tom was intentionally vague in his letter to Kieran alerting him and Elizabeth as to his visit, and he wonders now what they will say when they see he's not come alone._

ooo

_When Tom and Sybil finally arrive, there's shock, and it certainly does not take Kieran or Elizabeth long to guess who Sybil is and what she is doing with Tom so far away from home. Elizabeth, always something of a romantic, is immediately tickled and endeared by the whole thing. Kieran is of a different mind. He minces no words when, after greetings and pleasantries, Tom gets to the bottom of why he and Sybil are there._

_"Are you out of your fecking mind?!"_

_Tom sighs and rubs his eyes with his hands. "Kieran—"_

_"Is she with child?"_

_"I'm not even going to dignify that!"_

_"Well, then what on God's green earth possessed you to do this?"_

_Tom rolls his eyes. "What on earth possessed_ you _to marry a Scot?"_

_Kieran, who has been pacing the floor of his home's modest parlor as he tries to beat some sense into his younger brother, swirls back around. "This is not about me! Don't you even try to pretend our situations are in any way similar."_

_Tom stands up from his spot on the sofa. "If you think I came here looking for your permission you're wrong. We don't need the Branson family blessing anymore than we need the blessing of the Crawleys."_

_Kieran crosses his arms and smirks. "Oh, so she's of age, is she?"_

_Tom looks down._

_"I'm not yet twenty-one, but I'm a grown person capable of making my own decisions."_

_Both men turn to see Sybil and Kieran's wife, Elizabeth, at the door. Elizabeth is holding a tea tray. She excused herself to the kitchen to prepare it, and Sybil, knowing that Tom would need some time alone with his brother to explain their plans, offered to help._

_Kieran blushes slightly causing Elizabeth to smile. "You know as well as I do that you can't have a private conversation in this house," she says, walking past Sybil and putting the tray down on a small table at the end of the room._

_"Milady, I mean no disrespect," Kieran starts, "it's just—"_

_"I know what your concerns are," Sybil says, interrupting, "and I know what my parents' objections will be. We've weighed our options, and this is what we want to do—both of us." She steps up to where Tom is standing facing Kieran and takes his hand. "That the law does not allow women to make choices that men may make until an arbitrary point in their adulthoods is beside the point."_

_"Well, that may be true, but the law is the law," Kieran says. "I don't doubt that you're both fixed on the idea regardless of what anyone will think, but even here in Scotland, you can't just walk into a church or a registry and come out as husband and wife. It doesn't work that easily."_

_Tom and Sybil look at one another, not bothering to hide their discouraged expressions. "So it's no different here than in England, then?" Sybil asks._

_Kieran and Elizabeth look at one another. Kieran is about to speak up, but Elizabeth puts her hand on his arm to stop him. "Don't be dishonest, love, it is_ their _decision."_

_Kieran sighs. "It is different. You can marry without banns, without a minister and without parental consent, if you do it by sheriff's warrant. That's, um, . . . that's how we did it."_

_"My brother is a sheriff," Elizabeth puts in, "so we thought it would be nice if he was our registrant. We did that the same week we put in for the banns at our church. Father Michael wasn't terribly happy with the idea, but he knew my family so he was persuaded more easily than might have been possible otherwise."_

_"And only after we agreed that Elizabeth would continue to live with her family until after the church wedding," Kieran adds. "But legally, it holds the same weight as a registry marriage would in England."_

_"What does it entail?" Tom asks._

_"You marry in front of a sheriff and witnesses," Elizabeth answers. "The sheriff files the marriage in the registry. There used to be a fine involved, but that went away several years ago."_

_Sybil smiles. "So we can marry!"_

_"No," Kieran says. "The option only exists for Scottish residents. You have to prove residency for twenty-one days. It's not a long term, but more than you have time for. Your absence would be noted long before it was up."_

_Elizabeth smiles. "The law to curb border marriages changed ages ago, but I'm afraid the novels never quite caught up."_

_Sybil sits down on the sofa, deflated once again. "So there's no hope."_

_Tom narrows his eyes and looks at his brother. "How would we even prove that we've lived here for twenty-one days if we had the time to do that?"_

_Kieran shrugs. "How would I know?"_

_"The sheriff usually knows the couple, so there's not really anything to prove," Elizabeth says. "Or . . . "_

_"Or what?" Sybil asks._

_Elizabeth looks at Kieran. "Or someone could vouch for you . . . that is to say,_ we _could vouch for you."_

_Sybil's eyes widen and she jumps off of the sofa. "You would do that for us?"_

_"We could," Elizabeth says, looking at Kieran as if waiting for his confirmation._

_Tom looks to his brother, who is obviously skeptical._

_"Go on, love," Elizabeth insists. "What right do we have to stand in their way?"_

_"Even if we agreed, and even if your brother would do it—"_

_"He would!"_

_Kieran rolls his eyes. "Even if those two things happened, her father could walk into a court and undo it in less time than it would take him to unbutton his coat. Your brother would end in jail for perjury and mine for kidnapping."_

_Sybil shakes her head adamantly. "No, he wouldn't do that."_

_"With due respect milady, but—"_

_"No," Sybil presses, "I don't mean to say you're wrong—that would likely be his instinct, but the scandal that would ensue . . . my name would be besmirched forever. As difficult a man as my father is, he wouldn't drag the family's name into it or. . . disown me, which is more or less what society would expect of the family. My mother would never let him."_

_"It just seems too much for either of you to risk," Kieran says more quietly._

_"I know it won't be easy for us," Sybil says, looking at Tom. He takes her hand in his, in response, and she continues, "I know it's quite possible they'll send us away to America or even let us go to Ireland and make up some excuse for their friends about me. But they wouldn't disown me. I know my mother and grandmother, they'd be disappointed, but they'd stop well short of what you think could happen. And they'd see that my father not make a fuss. I am as certain of that as I am certain I want to marry Tom. And if I'm wrong, then we'll face it together and I'll do everything in my power to keep Tom out of harm's way. You have my word on that."_

_Kieran can't help but smile, if sadly, at Sybil's determination. Looking over at Tom again, he says, "She's quite a spitfire."_

_Tom grins and squeezes Sybil's hand, saying, "I wouldn't have her any other way. I know the risk, too, Kieran. I'm willing to face it. I can't speak for your brother, Elizabeth, but if he'll do it, we're ready."_

_Elizabeth smiles. "I'll go see him now and fix it for tomorrow."_

_"Tomorrow?!" Kieran exclaims, alarmed._

_"Well, it must be tomorrow, if you plan to go back to York before anyone sends notice to your family that you're missing, right?"_

_Both Tom and Sybil nod. "Yes, we both think that's best," Sybil says. "I want to finish my training. That's as far as we've planned."_

_"We will tell them," Tom says, "Sooner rather than later. We just haven't worked out exactly how."_

_"We couldn't correspond before the trip, and on the train, we were focused on actually getting married," Sybil says with a light laugh._

_Elizabeth laughs too. "Well, we'll go now to see my brother and give you time to talk freely."_

_"We will?" Kieran asks._

_"Yes, we will, so get your hat and coat," Elizabeth says, already moving to the hall to get her own._

_Once they are ready, Tom walks Kieran and Elizabeth out. Sybil stays behind in the parlor, and when Tom comes back inside, he pauses at the door. Sybil is on the sofa with her face in her hands._

_"Love?"_

_Sybil looks up as he kneels in front of her, and the bright smile on her face causes him to smile as well, despite the tears he sees falling from her eyes._

_"I'm sorry," she says, "I just didn't think it would be possible. I knew that we both wanted very much to be married at the end of this trip, but a small part of me had been preparing for the eventuality that some insurmountable roadblock would get in our way. But it's really going to happen! We're going to get married!"_

_Tom pulls her into him and kisses her deeply and lovingly. After several minutes, he pulls away only to realize that his eyes are filled with tears as well. He looks into hers for a long moment and says, "Are you sure this is really what you want?"_

_"Of course . . . isn't it what_ you _want?"_

_"More than anything. I agree that your father likely won't take things are far as Kieran thinks him capable, but that doesn't mean we aren't taking a risk. If we're honest with one another, we can admit that you have more to lose than I do."_

_Sybil brings her hand up to his cheek. "Darling, among all the things I stand to lose there isn't anything I care to keep."_

_Tom laughs as she pulls him into another kiss. He moves to sit beside her on the sofa. "So how do you want to tell them—or rather, when?"_

_Sybil sighs. "If I go back to the college and you go back to Downton, we won't be able to communicate until I'm finished. I'll hate that, but I don't see another way to ensure that I can finish the course properly."_

_"I'm afraid you're right, but it'll only be a few more weeks, and once you're back, we'll tell them."_

XXX

**June 1917**

Such was Sybil's relief and happiness regarding Tom's reprieve that she would have stayed with him all night if she could have. As it was, she pushed her luck almost to its breaking point and had a very close call getting back to the house. Daisy came into the servants' hall as Sybil was walking through to the stairs. Luckily, Sybil was already inside when Daisy came in, and Sybil easily pretended that she had simply been having a restless night's sleep and was looking for some tea. Daisy helped her put a tray together and even offered to take it up for Sybil since none of the housemaids were up yet.

Sybil declined her offer, though, and took it on her own. With the tray serving as a ready excuse, Sybil didn't have to hurry up to her room and instead took her time. As she walked along the corridor that led to the families' rooms, she thought about the fact that she had been prepared to tell everyone about Tom that very day. Now, though, the news that he would not be beholden to the British Army—or have to fight the order to serve—meant that they could keep their secret a little bit longer. They hadn't discussed it just now, but she assumed that they would continue on as before, waiting for the end of the war to speak their truth. Having already lasted three years, it sometimes felt like the fighting would never end. Sybil wondered whether it was advisable to continue on with the charade of not being anything to each other without a fixed date on which to finally reveal what in desperate moments she wanted so much to get off her chest. They had done well in hiding their marriage thus far, but Sybil was not so naïve as to think that such a big secret would be a secret forever.

When she made it to her room, she set down the tray on the small table in the corner and poured her tea. She was about to take a sip when a realization came over her. She and Tom had made love, several times, without thought to preventing a child. In the moment, it didn't matter because, her family was going to learn the truth in mere hours, Tom would be joining the Army and immediately defying his orders, walking into an uncertain future with his head held high and with Sybil supporting him, whatever happened. If anything, a child under those circumstances would have strengthened the bond that her family, no doubt, would have tried to stand in the way of.

But the medical dismissal had taken all that away. Now, things were no different than they'd been on the day Tom had received his letter. The future that they'd planned was within their grasp once again—as long as the truth didn't come out before they were ready. Sybil could admit to herself that there was some romance in the idea that on the night Tom's life was saved, they had created another life. Still, she wanted to experience motherhood on her own terms, not as a result of her and Tom's reaction to the random whims of the British Army. She set down her tea and immediately went to draw herself a bath, now wondering whether her own body would be the traitor that would reveal everything.

As she watched the water fill the tub, she tried to count the days in her head. It wouldn't be long before she got her answer.

**xxx**

After Sybil left, Tom managed a couple of hours of sleep, the tension that had been building up in him since he'd received his conscription letter finally finding release and leaving him exhausted. Once he was up and dressed, he ate some bread and cheese with some tea he kept at the cottage, then headed over to the garage. He wasn't scheduled to drive anyone anywhere that morning, and he knew that Sybil wasn't due at the hospital again until two days later. Assuming she'd still try to help the hospital staff serving the convalescing officers in the morning, when they were at their busiest, Tom did not expect to see her until late in the afternoon and, if she could get away, after dinner.

Tom knew he needed to tell Carson eventually that the war would not be taking him away, but he felt in no hurry to do so, so he set about cleaning his tools, a mindless task that would keep his hands busy for several hours leaving him to contemplate what this new turn in his luck would mean for the future. The night before, he'd been standing on a figurative precipice. Jumping off it, as he'd intended, would land him in jail or worse and take him away from Sybil and the life they were so eager to start just as soon as the war ended. There was nothing but joy in the moment of finding out that all the things he had hoped for he could still have. The Army wouldn't take his life—his body, imperfect as it was, had saved him. As he'd held Sybil in his arms before she snuck back into the house, he'd been nothing but grateful that this would not be the last time they were together as husband and wife.

Now, though, in the light of day, as his head cleared away the fog of fear and frustration that had taken over in the previous days, another feeling set in.

Guilt.

Despite how angry he had been that his future was going to be taken from him, once he had received the conscription notice, Tom had managed to achieve a measure of peace about being drafted into service by knowing that in his plan _not_ to serve, he'd be able to express—publicly and once and for all—his feelings about what the British Army had done to his country. And more than that, the socialist in him would thumb his nose, quite literally, at the entitled men who did not think twice about sending working class boys to their death. He did not regret not having to leave Sybil behind, but he'd be lying to himself now if he didn't admit that some part of him was sorry that he couldn't humiliate the Army the way he'd intended—that he had to keep swallowing his opinions. He knew how important it was for Sybil and for their future that she work as long as was possible, but the secrecy was weighing on him. He wanted to be able to shout his love for her from a mountaintop, but he couldn't. He'd planned to publicly declare his objection to war, the military and the British government, but now he couldn't do that either. So only hours after relief and happiness were the only emotions he could articulate, an uneasy restlessness began to seep into his thoughts once again.

When the hour of luncheon came around, he finally wandered over to the servants hall. Luncheon upstairs had not yet finished, so Carson was not to be found, but Tom spotted Mrs. Hughes inside her small office and stepped in, knocking gently on the open door.

"Hello, Mr. Branson. I hope you are well. Sit down."

Tom did so with a small, but genuine smile. Mrs. Hughes' manner, kind but stern when it needed to be, reminded him so much of his own mother, and indeed, the housekeeper had proven herself like a kind of mother to him over the years, looking after him even when he wasn't looking out for himself.

"Hello, Mrs. Hughes," he said sitting down. "Have I caught you at a bad time?"

"Not at all," she said. "I hope you haven't come to say the Army has finally given you your assignment. I hate to lose another young man—not for the sake of your work, of course, or the house, but for your own sake. This war has taken too many already."

"No," Tom said, "actually, I'm here to report the opposite. It turns out I'm not fit for duty."

"Oh?" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed with some concern. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes and no," Tom answered. "It seems I have a heart condition—a heart _murmur_ as it's called. It doesn't affect my everyday life, but leaves me unable to stand the rigors of battle, at least according to the Army's doctors."

Mrs. Hughes let out a sigh of relief. "It's a gift from God is what it is, Mr. Branson, and I hope you are grateful for it. There is no glory in war, no matter what they tell you. Poor William has got himself all stoked up to go, wanting to fight for king and country, but I dare say, he'd serve both better here at home."

Tom smiled again. "I don't disagree." After a beat, he asked, "Is William gone abroad, then?"

"Not quite yet. He sent word that he'll be by tomorrow to say goodbye, before he joins his regiment. I wish he were coming on a different day, but we'll make time to see him off properly."

"What do you mean a different day?" Tom asked.

"Oh, supposedly some top man from the army is coming to visit the convalescent home on the family's invitation."

Tom's curiosity was peaked. "Who?"

"A general, I would guess—you'd think the housekeeper would be told these things. It's Captain Crawley's doing, I believe. Mr. Carson is the one who has the details—all I know is that it'll be work for us."

"Well, then, I won't take more of your time," Tom said standing back up.

"Thank you, Mr. Branson, and I truly am glad that we won't be losing you."

"Not to the war, anyway."

Mrs. Hughes' brow furrowed slightly at his cryptic remark, but before she could say anything, he was gone.

**xxx**

Indeed, news of a visit from General Strutt hadn't been confirmed with everyone on the house staff, but upstairs, hospital workers were put on notice and were so busy getting ready that Sybil wasn't able to get away to see Tom in the garage in the morning or afternoon.

After talking with Mrs. Hughes and a light lunch in the cottage, Tom continued doing mindless work, moving on from his tools to washing the motors and their parts. Sitting in the yard, several of the staff—even O'Brien—came by to say hello as news that he wouldn't be going to war made its way around downstairs. There was chatter about the general's visit too, but Tom couldn't piece much together. He wondered what the point of it would be. The general would thank the family, of course, and the recovering men, but beyond that, Tom saw nothing in it but another meaningless ritual in which those in power got to pat themselves on the back and those beneath them were supposed to feel good for being merely noticed. The medical staff and the servants would not be allowed to question the man or the motives behind this or any conflict or ask why so many years into the war so many young men were still being asked to lay their lives down on the fields of Europe. But they'd all be expected to smile and bow.

_Smile and bow._

Just as Tom would have been expected to do while marching on parade, and just as he would have done before he stepped out of formation to speak his mind once and for all for anyone who was around to hear. That had been his plan, anyway.

Tom wondered for a moment whether anyone would do that here, but he didn't consider the thought long. He knew nobody would. Who else but Tom had experienced the brutality of the British Army so personally. Who would even consider questioning the government? Even Mrs. Patmore, whose nephew died by British guns for being a deserter, would never question the authority that commanded the likely equally scared young men charged with the task of shooting a former brother in arms. She might question the decision, but she'd never question the authority. Certainly, she'd never march upstairs, put herself face to face with the general and fire off an inquiry point blank. She'd never so much as spit in his soup, and she would likely hold someone who tried it in greater contempt than the general himself—a man who'd likely tell her that her nephew deserved the punishment that was meted out to him.

Tom laughed, picturing himself sneaking into the kitchen and dropping a bit of sour milk into the tureen before it went upstairs. Sour milk and oil. And ink. And a bit of a cow pie. He'd march the pungent mix upstairs and dump it on the general's head. An odd form of protest, perhaps, but it would get in the newspaper surely and get people talking and the man would reek for days and have to think about Tom and the Irish and the poor young men he sent to battle any time his nose came across a remotely foul smell. Tom would never be able to do it, of course. As O'Brien liked pointing out often, a chauffeur was barely tolerated in the servants hall—he'd be kicked out the kitchen immediately. And even if he managed to sneak the tureen out of the pantry undetected, everyone would know something was amiss the moment he stepped into the dining room. Everyone including Sybil.

She knew of his family's losses at the hands of the English and understood his politics better than anyone, but she wouldn't understand taking such a risk for the sake of political protest—not when he was no longer being forced to give everything up.

_Would she?_

The question stayed in the back of his mind as the afternoon went by. At tea time, he went back into the servants hall. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore were discussing the dinner for the general the next day, which had finally been confirmed. Mrs. Patmore seemed even more exasperated than usual.

"Is something wrong?" Tom asked Anna, who was walking by, as he pointed to Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes.

"They're trying to figure out how to convince Mr. Carson to allow one of the maids to serve the big dinner tomorrow. With William gone, there's no footman, and you know Thomas isn't going to do it. They've already agreed Mr. Lang is not up to it."

"And Mr. Carson isn't happy, I imagine," Tom said.

Anna smiled. "You imagine right. He's getting the silver ready, but is in a right mood about the whole thing."

Anna moved on and Tom watched Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore continue to talk for several minutes. He wasn't sure what made him do it, but as if acting of their own accord, his feet moved in the direction of the silver pantry.

Knocking on the door, he said, "Mr. Carson, might I have a word."

"I'm busy with this dinner for tomorrow night," Carson replied.

"Well, that's just it. I don't expect you'll be using Mr. Lang."

"I will not."

"So I wondered if I might be any help. I've waited a table before."

It was a lie, but what difference would it make. He wasn't actually going to be serving anything—not food anyway—and what would anyone care who served after that? Still, it was enough that the relief in Carson's face was obvious.

"Do you mean it?"

Tom nodded.

"I know I've no right to ask it of a chauffeur," Carson said.

"We have to keep up the honor of Downton, don't we?" Tom said, momentarily wondering, once the words were out of his mouth, if he was laying it on too thick.

"I'm very grateful, Mr. Branson," Carson replied. "I'll not hide it, very grateful, indeed. You know where to find the livery?"

Tom nodded again. "I do."

He was about to go when Carson added, "And I gather you won't be leaving us after all."

"Who knows what the future will bring," Tom said offering Carson a small smile, then turning on his heel and stepping out of the room. As he did so he felt a bit light-headed. His heart—his faulty heart—started to race and for a brief moment it was as if he was losing his bearings. He put his hand on the wall of the hallway and thought to himself, _What am I doing?_

The question felt too big for him to answer, creating more and more contradictory questions in his mind that he didn't have answers for either. What was he doing planning to wreck a dinner for an Army general? What was he doing for the Republican cause? What was he doing still at Downton? What was he doing with Sybil? Why was he trying to humiliate her family? What was he doing sabotaging a future that had just been handed back to him?

He felt entirely outside of himself but shook his head and kept going.

**ooo**

Back in the silver pantry, Carson watched Tom walk out, too relieved to linger on how surprised he was that Mr. Branson, of all people, would be the one to save this dinner. He never made a secret of his political leanings, which certainly did not align with those of the house, but Carson couldn't deny that he was a hard worker and did his job well.

Once he'd finished with the silver, Carson went back upstairs to the library, where Robert, Cora, Mary and Sybil were still gathered.

"Pardon me, milord," Carson said.

"Yes, Carson," Robert replied, putting his cup down and standing, moving over to meet Carson where he was standing behind the sofa.

"I just wanted to offer an update on dinner tomorrow—we won't have to have maids serving after all."

"Well, that's a relief," Cora said, teasingly from where she was seated.

"It is," Carson replied, with no trace of irony. "I could never imagine hosting such a dignitary and not being able to present the house at its best."

"We appreciate your efforts on that score," Robert said.

"How did you manage it?" Mary asked.

"Mr. Branson volunteered," Carson said.

"Branson?" Sybil said, unable to hide her surprise.

"It's not part of his normal duties, obviously," Carson said, "and I can't imagine many chauffeurs would be willing, but he said he's had experience serving and we really are desperate. I do appreciate his willingness and thought it right to point it out."

"Of course, Carson," Robert said. "We'll be sure to thank him. Thank you to keeping everything moving along for dinner tomorrow."

Carson bowed and stepped away again.

He was barely out of the room when Sybil also stood to leave.

"Is everything all right?" Mary asked Sybil. As Sybil moved to set her cup down on the table and go, trying to hide her agitation.

"Yes," she said quickly. "Yes, of course. One of the nurses asked me to see to something earlier today and I only just remembered."

"I'm sure it'll be all right, whatever it is," Cora said, smiling.

Sybil smiled back tightly and trying to keep herself in check, left the room.

_What is he doing? What is he thinking?_

The questions rolled over and over in her mind like a bad chorus. A feeling of dread came over her, sudden and overwhelming. They had dodged a bullet, but so far as Sybil could gather from the news Carson had brought the family Tom was about to willingly step into the path of another.

Sybil hurried out of the house and down the now very familiar path to the garage, stopping short as he came into view. Tom was standing in the middle of the entryway, and though his back was to Sybil, she could see his shoulders drooping. He looked a bit lost, as if he didn't know whether he was coming or going.

"Tom?" She asked, approaching carefully and putting her hand on his shoulder.

He turned suddenly. He'd obviously not heard her approach. He shook her hand off and walked the rest of the way in to the garage—a reaction that surprised her.

"What?" he asked rather brusquely.

Sybil's brow furrowed. " _What_?" she repeated, her own back up for a fight. "What do you mean, ' _What_ '? Have I done something that needs explaining?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just . . . busy," he said, walking over to his work table and picking up random objects and moving them around.

"Clearly," she said sarcastically.

"Sybil, I don't have time for this," he said, letting out a long sigh of frustration.

"Time for what? Your wife coming to say hello?"

"Is that what you are? Am I really your husband? You married a proud Irish socialist, but am I that still? Haven't I been neutered, beyond all hope, by my own inadequate body? Am I just a lowly chauffeur?"

Sybil considered how to respond to such a litany before saying, "No, because apparently you're a footman now."

Tom turned to look at her again. Her arms were crossed in annoyance, but the smirk on her face suggested she wasn't angry. Tom laughed uneasily.

"It's funny how easily we've managed to keep a secret in a place were news usually travels so fast."

Sybil took a step toward him. "Do you really think it's been easy?"

Tom shook his head.

"Do you wish someone would find us out?"

This time he looked down, not answering.

Sybil bit her lip and put her hand on his shoulder again. "Would it make you feel better to know that I sometimes wish it too?"

Tom looked at her again, a sadness in his eyes that took Sybil aback. "Do you?" he whispered.

Sybil took his hand. "I want to scream it in their faces sometimes, but they'd probably put me in the loony bin."

Tom laughed in spite of himself.

Sybil watched him for a moment then asked pointedly, "Do you regret not being able to confront the Army—and my family? Is that why you want to serve tomorrow? To look the man in the eye, tell him off and then get yourself thrown in prison?"

Tom sighed. "No . . . well, perhaps on some level. I don't want to be separated from you, not for a second, but I can't deny that to have been so close to telling everyone who I really am and how I really feel, I'd found some satisfaction in that, but then suddenly not having to . . . I suppose it's made me feel a bit . . . untethered."

Sybil smiled and took both of his hands in hers. "You're always tethered to me. Even if no one here knows it, it's still true."

Tom let out a long sigh and pulled her into his arms. "We were going to keep our love secret until we got married. Then, we decided to wait until your course was over. Then, until you'd had some experience as a nurse. Then, until after the war had come and gone. I don't mind waiting until the time is right. I just wish we knew when that time was coming."

"Well, it might be sooner than we think."

Tom pulled away to look into her eyes. "What?"

Sybil bit her lip. "We weren't very careful last night. Not the way we usually are. I think it'll be all right but . . ."

Tom took a step back but held on to her hands as the weight of what she was saying hit him. "A child? Really?"

Sybil sighed. "It's a possibility. I don't think it will happen, given the timing, but as I said, we didn't take any precautions."

"I'm sorry," Tom said. "I wasn't thinking."

"Neither was I. We let ourselves get caught up in the moment, but if it happens—"

"If it happens, we'll make the best of it, and I shall be very happy and proud."

Sybil smiled. "As will I, and if it doesn't, then we know God's given us a bit of luck."

Tom traced the outline of her face with his fingers. "He's already given me more than I could ask for."

Sybil leaned into his touch. "I should go," she said. "Before we get carried away again."

Tom smiled and stepped away, letting her go.

"Before I go, though," Sybil said tentatively.

"What?"

"Will you tell Carson you can't serve tomorrow?"

"I don't even know why I said I would—what I thought it would accomplish. But you needn't worry. I've come to my senses, thanks to you."

"Even so," Sybil said. "Please don't to it. Promise me."

"I promise I won't make mischief—or are you really afraid I can't control myself when I see the bastard?"

"No, it's not that. I just . . . I don't want you to serve the general. He doesn't deserve your deference or service any more than you deserve to subject yourself to further humiliation at the Army's hands."

A surge of pride welled up in him.

"Fake ill tomorrow or make up some excuse," Sybil said. "Just don't do it."

"All right," he said quietly.

XXX

**Two days later**

After a whole day cooped up alone in his cottage with a "cold," without even Sybil sneaking in for a visit, Tom ventured out to join the staff for luncheon. He was eager to hear how dinner had gone, but more than anything, he wanted to see Sybil again and get back to his normal routine. The news of his medical release had upended him emotionally. Now, all he wanted was for normality, as the war had come to define it, to resume.

Most everyone was seated when he came in.

"Are you feeling better, Mr. Branson?" Anna asked.

"I am, thank you," he said, pulling out a handkerchief and sniffling into it for good measure.

"Madge seems to have caught cold as well," Mrs. Hughes said with a sigh. "I checked on her this morning. Let's all be very careful. The last thing we need is for this to sweep through the house."

Tom smiled, thinking of Sybil's words about God giving them a bit of luck. That a housemaid had also fallen ill was nothing if not the luckiest of coincidences.

"I'm sorry to have missed serving after saying I could manage it," Tom said. "I hope Mr. Carson wasn't too upset about having to use a maid."

"Actually, William served," Anna said. "In his Army uniform, which apparently was to the general's liking."

"If only the rest of the dinner party had been so well received," O'Brien said in a bit of a huff.

Tom looked around at all of them. "Was dinner not to his liking?"

Everyone looked to Mrs. Hughes, as if asking for permission to answer.

"Oh, go on," she said with a roll of her eyes, "he's bound to hear about it eventually, but quickly before Mr. Carson comes down."

_"May I ask, sir, do you see an end to the conflict any time soon?" Sybil asked, as the third course was served._

_"Pardon me?" General Strutt said, surprised by the question._

_Sybil felt her father's stern eyes on her, but did not pay him mind. "It's only that we've been fighting for years and the political situation seems no closer to resolution than when we started. I would hope that with so many young men lost already, we're working toward a peaceful end."_

_"Of course, they're working toward an end to the war, Sybil," Cora said, tightlipped. "What a silly question."_

_"I'd like for the general to address it, even so," Sybil insisted. "Seeing no end to the number of wounded men coming into hospital, I wonder. That's all."_

_The general smiled. "Your daughters are all involved in support of the war effort, Lady Grantham. That's a credit to you."_

_"Sybil is an auxiliary nurse," Isobel said. "She has been a great support here at the house and at the hospital."_

_"You've seen a great deal, I am sure," the general said to Sybil. "As to our governance, you needn't concern yourself with any of it."_

_Sybil smiled as the party stopped watching her and continued on with their meal, as if that was going to be the end of it._

_"Do you think this a just conflict?" she asked after a moment._

_"A just conflict?" The general repeated._

_Sybil nodded._

_The man smiled at her patronizingly again. "All of the king's causes are just."_

_"Are they?"_

_"Do you make it a practice of questioning your monarch or his government?" The general asked, a clear challenge in his voice._

_"Certainly not," Robert cut in quickly. "Sybil that's enough."_

_But she pressed on as if Robert hadn't even spoken. "Of course, I do. We all should. It wouldn't be a very strong government if it did not hold up to scrutiny. I daresay you should invite my skepticism. It strengthens your position when you can meet our enemy with the will of the people behind you and not merely their forced consent."_

_"Sybil—" Robert tried to cut in again._

_"I doubt the king is very concerned with William's imminent departure. I suppose given the severity of the matters of state in which he deals, the life of one person may not seem like much when thousands have been lost, but the tragedy of death is singularly and acutely painful to the family who suffers it. I would hope that if Mr. Mason were here to ask after his son, you'd have a better answer than, 'Trust the king.'"_

_"That's quite enough!" Robert said, practically throwing his fork onto his plate. "General Strutt please accept our deepest apologies. My daughter's views certainly don't reflect those of this house or her upbringing."_

_"Not to worry, Lord Grantham. Young people always think they know better. Once they've lived as long as we have, marry and have children of their own, they understand."_

_"You may be right, General Strutt," Sybil said. "If only so many of my friends hadn't died so young, they could have lived long enough to prove your point."_

_Sybil looked down at her plate, picked up her fork again and took a bite. Her mother quickly took the opportunity to ask Matthew a question, and he, in turn, answered quickly and steered the conversation toward a safer area. Sybil barely looked up from her plate for the rest of the meal, not because she was ashamed, but because she couldn't bear to look at anyone. It was an exercise in self-congratulation. Sybil didn't need the general to validate her work as a nurse, and she certainly wasn't doing it to curry his or anyone else's good favor. She wanted to help, but she also wanted to know that she wasn't merely a cog in a machine performing a Sisyphean task and she certainly wouldn't be satisfied being told that it wasn't her place to ask questions._

_She would never truly know the plight of Tom's country or class, but she understood his frustration and the difficulty of not acting rashly in the face of it._

"He was very pleased with the work of the convalescent home, and the meal itself was fine," Anna said. "Lady Sybil disagreed with some of the general's politics is all."

Tom's eyes widened in shock.

"That's a forgiving way of putting it," O'Brien said. "I can't imagine the Army will send anymore dignitaries our way after her horrible antics."

"And how would you know how horrible they were if you weren't there?" Mrs. Patmore said, coming into the conversation as she set the stew down in the center of the table.

"I know _her_ ," O'Brien said, pointedly. "And I know how put off by the whole thing his lordship was from her ladyship's comments last night, and how quickly the general retreated this morning."

"All she did was ask him when we should expect an end to the war," an exasperated Mrs. Hughes cut in. "A fair question, but like all men of his position he didn't like being questioned by a woman and that's all that needs to be said about it."

Carson came in just then and that really was the end of the conversation. But Tom didn't really need to hear more. He already felt too proud for words, and he was already counting the seconds until he saw her again.

His wife.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things. Marriage by sheriff's warrant did exist as described in Scotland, but the three week residence was required at that time. I happily acknowledge that by making Elizabeth's brother a sheriff willing to bend the rules, I've taken a short-cut, but hey, it's my story ;) It's likely, as Kieran says, that Robert could have easily questioned the legality of the marriage if he wanted to, but I believe like Sybil that Violet and Cora would have stopped him from going that far.
> 
> Regarding Tom momentarily losing himself and acting as if he was going to carry out his plan to dump the tureen full of slop on the general, it always struck me as odd—even in canon—that he would contemplate such a thing given the consequences, especially when he wanted to be with Sybil. But I do believe that after believing that he'd be defying the Army and psyching himself up for that—not getting to do it would be a bit of a let down. Obviously, all it takes for him to come to his senses is seeing Sybil, but it's also important that she understand why speaking out was so important to him, which is why she does it on his behalf. I don't say it in the update, but she doesn't question the general about the British Army's treatment of the Irish specifically, it's because she fears it would give away her relationship with an Irish person in the house :)


	8. Chapter 8

 

**January 1917**

_"Are you sure you won't have Kieran walk you down?"_

_Sybil smiles at Elizabeth Branson's insistence that some traditions be adhered to despite the wholly unusual and scandal-worthy circumstances of Tom and Sybil's wedding. Elizabeth has holed up Sybil in her and Kieran's bedroom since the morning, insistent that Tom, who slept on the sofa so Sybil could have the bed in the guest room, not see his bride before the appointed time._

_Sybil looks at herself once more in the mirror before turning to address the woman who in a few minutes will be her sister-in-law. "I'm fine, really," Sybil insists. "It's not as if we're in a church. I'm not even wearing white. And anyway, philosophically speaking I reject the notion that I must be given away—even if my father were here and willing to do it."_

_Elizabeth smiles. "Tom will have his hands full with you."_

_Sybil laughs in response. She looks down at her dress, a black silk frock patterned with gold thread. It was bought for what turned out to be her only summer in London. She hadn't wanted to bring anything so fancy to York, but her sisters had insisted. She is glad she did, though, and glad she thought to bring it with her to Scotland, glad to have a chance to mark the occasion with a dress even if it's not the dress of a bride._

_She feels a momentary pang in her heart, thinking about Mary and Edith._

_Her parents._

_The long aisle up to the sanctuary at Downton Church._

_What would it have been like to stand on one end of it, hand tucked into her father's elbow, and see Tom standing at the other end?_

_Sybil shakes her head to wipe that image from her mind for it is a silly fantasy. And anyway Tom is Catholic. Mr. Travis would likely board up the church before agreeing to marry such a person to a member of his flock. Sybil wonders if Tom's priest at the Catholic church he attends in Ripon would have a similar response for her, if they'd showed up at his door._

_This is the only way, she thinks. This is the best way._

_"You don't have to do this, you know."_

_Sybil looks at Elizabeth again, whose expression is kind but not without concern._

_Elizabeth steps to Sybil and takes her hands in hers. "I don't know you, but marriage is a big step no matter who you are. Add to that what you two are doing defying your families . . . if you're not sure—"_

_"I am sure," Sybil said quickly. "I just . . . I am sad I am not with my family now. I can admit as much, but more for their sake than for mine. Thank you, though. I'm glad you're here."_

_"Me too," Elizabeth says, then leans in conspiratorially to add, "Kieran could never be trusted to plan a wedding on his own, let alone in one day."_

_Sybil laughs and feels light again. Kieran and Elizabeth will be her family now too._

_This is the best way, she thinks again, and after a moment, she says, "I'm ready."_

_Elizabeth squeezes her hands one more time before letting go and walking over to her small vanity, where she has set two vases. She picks up the two bouquets that have been sitting in them since the morning, when she put them together herself. She hands the larger of the two to Sybil._

_"We can't have a wedding without flowers," Elizabeth says seriously._

_Sybil smiles. "Quite right."_

_Elizabeth moves over to the door, opens it and yells down, "Here comes the bride."_

_Sybil starts to feel her heart race inside her chest. She takes a deep breath to calm herself, and as she exhales, her eyes begin to water. Elizabeth turns back to her and notices._

_"All right?"_

_Sybil nods, smiling as she feels a tear drip down onto her cheek. "Yes," she says with a laugh. "Just happy."_

_Elizabeth opens the door widely and walks down the short hall and down the stairs. Sybil watches her do it and when Elizabeth has reached the bottom, Sybil follows. At the bottom of the stairs, she turns and walks around the banister toward the house's small sitting room._

_Tom is standing at the hearth with Kieran on his left and Elizabeth's brother, Andrew on his right. Andrew smiles kindly at Sybil, which she appreciates._

_The previous evening, Sheriff Andrew MacQueen and his wife came to dine with the Bransons. Before dinner was served, Andrew spoke briefly with Tom and Sybil, first together, then separately. Sybil, being who she was, couldn't help but push him on why he would be willing to take such a risk for people he didn't know._

_His response surprised her: "Milady, enforcing the law isn't just about doing what is right, but about knowing what is right. Prosecutorial discretion is the better part of what I do—it's the difference between what the law intends and what the law accomplishes. The law that requires a couple to wait before they are married intends for two people not to enter into a union out of rashness. What it accomplishes, in your case, is that it robs you of your own will."_

_Andrew went on to tell Sybil that marriage by sheriff's warrant was a duty he enjoyed performing, but he was a conscientious man and didn't like presiding over any union in which he could sense a hint of doubt, especially when there was a reason, as there was now, that the church was not the chosen venue. He found no reason not to marry Tom and Sybil—not even the threat that an earl might come back to question his authority. As a sheriff, Andrew has seen to the incarceration of enough men not to be intimidated by the specter of "an English toff."_

_As she approaches him now, Sybil finds herself grateful for having Andrew in her corner as well. But her eyes don't linger on the sheriff as she walks to her place, because once hers meet Tom's eyes, it is as if no one else is there. She can see that there are tears pooling in his eyes as well. She feels so light she thinks she might float away if Tom taking her hand as she reached for him doesn't serve as her anchor._

_Her anchor._

_If she could see inside Tom's head just now, she would know that he reached for her to be sure she was real, that this was happening, that all of it isn't just a dream._

_"Shall we, then?"_

_Andrew's gentle voice breaks their stare, and sheepish, they turn to him, not letting each other's hands go._

_"I'm not much for ceremony, so we'll just get right down to it," Andrew says with a smile. "Do you Lady Sybil Crawley, take Mr. Tom Branson, as your lawful husband?"_

_Sybil turns to look Tom in the eyes. "I do."_

_"Do you, Mr. Tom Branson, take Lady Sybil Crawley as your lawful wife?"_

_Tom smiles, his eyes shining again. "I do."_

_"And do you both enter into this union of your own free will?"_

_Tom and Sybil turn to Andrew again and both nod. "We do," Tom said._

_Andrew raised his eyebrow at Sybil, who smiles at his thoroughness. "We do," she affirms._

_Andrew smiles. "Very well, Lady Sybil, turn to Tom again and repeat after me: 'I, Sybil Crawley, take you, Tom Branson to be my husband."_

_Sybil takes a deep breath and feels the same tightening in her chest that she felt just before she walked down the stairs. "I, Sybil Crawley, take you, Tom Branson, to be my husband."_

_Andrew continues, "I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health."_

_"I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health."_

_"I will love and honor you all the days of my life."_

_Sybil feels lightheaded as a lifetime's worth of memories not yet lived passes before her eyes. She coughs slightly, so her voice would be as clear as her heart. "I will love and honor you all the days of my life."_

_Andrew turns to Tom. "Now, Tom, re—"_

_"I, Tom Branson, take you, Sybil Crawley to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love and honor you all the days of my life."_

_Sybil giggles through her tears as he comes to the end of his vows, never once needing to be prompted. "Have you been practicing?"_

_Tom laughs. "Maybe."_

_"Very well," Andrew says. "By the power invested in me by Dumfriesshire County, I pronounce you husband and wife."_

_Tom and Sybil both grin and squeeze one another's hands, as Kieran and Elizabeth clap. It's a small sound, but it fills the room and Sybil's heart with happiness._

_"Do you have a ring for your bride?" Andrew asks Tom._

_To Sybil's surprise, Tom digs into his waistcoat pocket and pulls out a small, thin gold band, the ends of which come together in two interlocking ovals. Not a traditional wedding band, but exactly the kind of ring, beautiful in its simplicity, that Sybil might have chosen herself under different circumstances._

_Smiling, she lifts up her hand so he can slip it on. She looks at it on her finger and already feels as if it's been there forever. "I love it," she whispers to him. "Thank you."_

_Tom is about to say something, when Andrew speaks up again. "Now, let's make sure it's official." Andrew pulls out of his pocket two thick pieces of paper and walks over to the table by the sofa. He leans down and signs them both, then looks up again and says, "So, who wants to go first, husband or wife?"_

_Sybil eagerly steps forwards and signs her name on her marriage certificate. Tom does the same, then Elizabeth and Kieran take their turns as the union's witnesses. Andrew looks over both copies and, satisfied that they've been completed properly, hands one to Tom and then returns the other to his pocket._

_"I'll file this at the end of the month. Anyone who doesn't believe the one you've kept is legitimate may write to the magistrate for confirmation," he says._

_"And if someone wanted to contest it?" Tom asks._

_"The magistrate would call a hearing. As the registrant, I'd testify that you were married according to Scottish law."_

_"But the residency requirement," Sybil said, "We didn't—"_

_"Didn't stay here? Not everyone does," he says with a laugh. "I don't have to prove anything but that I acted on what you told me was true. You left home for York and came here, instead. If your father says it was all lies, well, then I'd say that's between him and you."_

_Sybil approaches him to shake his hand. "Thank you. Thank you so much."_

_Tom shakes his hand as well. With a slight nod of his head, Andrew heads to the door, with Elizabeth and Kieran following. Just as he's passing Tom, Kieran says, "This is when you're supposed to kiss her, you silly fool."_

_Tom and Sybil both laugh, and when they are alone, he walks over to do just that. He slows as he approaches her, as if a bit overwhelmed by the moment._

_He takes her face in his hands as starts to try to speak, "I . . ."_

_Sybil lifts up to her tip toes and whispers into his lips, just before they meet her own, "I know."_

_She is inside a house owned by people she's only just met, in a town in Scotland she's never been to and has barely seen anything of. She is as far away from Downton Abbey as she's ever been on her own._

_But she's home._

**December 1917**

After Tom's near brush with the Army, the news of the heart condition that kept him from having to enlist and the visit by General Strutt that almost pushed him to the brink of recklessly revealing his and Sybil's marriage, things settled back into a routine for them. Merely a week after the general had come and gone, Sybil's monthly bleeding appeared, and just like that, it was as if all of the forces that would have forced their secret out in the open receded once more, leaving them to make of their situation what they would and leave the big reveal until they were ready.

When Sybil saw plainly that she was not with child, she felt mostly relief, but in the back of her mind, something a little bit like regret also managed to tug at her heart. It was a brief sensation, but just long enough for her to realize that—even though this was certainly not the moment—she very much wanted children and now looked forward to the day when she would be a mother. She thought long and hard, and Tom did too, about whether it wouldn't be better to just come clean. She wasn't ashamed of Tom or how they'd gotten married. She wanted everyone to know that marrying him had been her own happy choice, but then she'd spend an especially satisfying and busy day at the hospital and would be reminded just how precious the experience she was gaining was. She wanted to let the world know she was married, but she also wouldn't be a burden to her husband, which meant working as long as she was able during the war and hope against hope that it would be enough to carry her forward into more work later.

Likewise, for Tom, having been on the precipice of telling all, he wondered why hiding had seemed so important when he and Sybil had made the decision to do so. But then he, too, would be moved by how much she had learned and how much more she would be able to do, if they stuck to their original plan.

It was a kind of emotional paralysis that might have driven them both mad were it not for the fact that the return to married life as only they knew it brought with it comforts that seemed too precious to risk. The normalcy of daily stolen kisses, secret tête-à-têtes, rides to and from the hospital and making love on the nights that quiet and the cover of night offered an opportunity took over their lives once more. Days became weeks, weeks became months and before either of them knew it, it was Christmastime.

War was starting to feel like a way of life, and as Tom and Sybil approached a year of hiding in plain sight, they might have started stirring the waters more intentionally, if it hadn't been so easy to find a way to be happy.

XXX

"Where are you off to with all that?"

Sybil turned as she heard Mary's voice behind her. It was a few days before Christmas. Mary had just come into the entrance hall, where Sybil was standing with several boxes stacked next to her.

"The hospital," Sybil answered. "With so many men being forced to spend their holidays there, the nurses thought we'd make it a bit more festive. We have so many more decorations than we ever use, so I ransacked the attic for things I know mama won't miss."

"That's kind of Dr. Clarkson to allow," Mary said.

"I wish we could do more," Sybil said. "Garlands and tinsel hardly seems like enough for what the men have gone through."

"I'd wager the effort will go a long way," Mary said with a smile.

Just then, Carson came through the door to announce that Tom had the motor ready outside. Between them, the two men moved all the boxes out into the yard and Tom secured them onto the back. Just as she was about to board, Sybil turned back to Carson.

"Carson, I expect we'll need Branson to help unload and begin to set up some of the decorations at the hospital, so would you let Lord Grantham know not to expect him back for several of hours."

Tom pursed his lips to hide his smile, but looking over at Carson, he could see that the butler saw nothing in Sybil's request.

"Very good, milady," Carson answered, and with a nod of her head, Sybil settled into the back. After Tom had boarded and cranked the engine, they were on their way.

Once they were past the gates of the house, Tom glanced back at Sybil and asked, "You really think it's going to take several hours to put up a few Christmas decorations?"

Sybil laughed. "The decorations aren't going up until tonight—the nurses are going to make an event of it. I honestly have no idea what's in these boxes or what may be useful. I can't very well sort everything out on my own, but I also wouldn't want to take another nurse away from her duties, and if I know Dr. Clarkson, he won't either."

"You spent all morning _packing_ the boxes yourself, did you not?"

"What are you insinuating, Branson?!" Sybil said, her tone dripping with faux-indignation, to which Tom could only laugh.

Once at the hospital, Tom unloaded the boxes and Nurse Roberts, the head nurse, guided him and Sybil toward a mostly empty storage room in the hospital's basement.

"This is very kind of your family, Nurse Crawley," Nurse Roberts said. "I know this is your off day, so don't feel obligated to do too much, we can always see to everything tonight."

"It's no bother," Sybil answered. "And anyway, I will miss the actual decorating tonight, so I'd like to do my part. In any case, my mother is rather particular about how some of these things are handled, so I'll leave them out so they are ready for you."

"Very well," Nurse Roberts said with a smile, closing the door behind her as she left.

Once they were alone, Tom smiled cheekily at Sybil. "I know you don't like deceit, but I dare say you're very good at it."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "All I'm trying to do is find us some alone time—there's no need to tease me."

Tom's expression softened. "You're right, love, I'm sorry." He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.

Sybil closed her eyes and she leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed into the embrace. After a long moment, she pulled back and said, "I don't like playing into people's expectations. Knowing mama would never bother to speak to or consult with Nurse Roberts about anything, and Nurse Roberts never presuming to need to speak to mama. You and I are breaking a cardinal rule by stepping over a line, and the line itself and other people's unwillingness to cross it is what keeps the secret hidden. A bit sad, I think, but given our circumstances, I don't think it can be helped."

"I'm sorry for teasing you," Tom said, "I should be grateful that you've found time in the day for us. Everything's been so busy lately, I barely have time to think. I realized only yesterday that we passed the anniversary of my proposal to you without notice."

Sybil smiled. "We're only days away from the anniversary of my saying yes."

"And less than a month away from the anniversary of our wedding. Is this how you pictured your first year of marriage?"

He was teasing again, but Sybil heard a catch in his voice, as if he were asking her a real question and almost afraid of the answer.

"Honestly," she said, "I never pictured anything. I never imagined what it would be like to be married or daydreamed about my wedding. So now that I've done it, our way seems perfectly natural and I can't picture anything else."

Tom smiled. "Maybe that was your subconscious knowing you'd not do things the conventional way and preparing you for it."

"I'm very clever like that, aren't I?" Sybil said.

"The cleverest. That's why I wanted to marry you."

Tom leaned down and Sybil met him halfway in a deep passionate kiss. They could have stood there in each other's arms for the whole afternoon, but they separated after several long minutes and actually set about the task of arranging the decorations in such a way that they'd be easy to handle and hang. There was plenty of teasing and pinching and stolen kisses along the way, but luckily they didn't get too lost in themselves not to hear Nurse Roberts when she came down to check on them an hour later.

Once she was gone again, Sybil admitted that Nurse Roberts having seen their progress, the ruse would not stand for much longer. They finished up quickly, but not before Tom found a branch of mistletoe and held it above himself. Sybil laughed and played along, taking a stray strand of garland and putting it around his neck to pull him close. Tom dropped the mistletoe and put his arms around her waist to lift her up off the ground.

After they kissed and he put her back down, Sybil looked into his eyes and whispered, "Happy Christmas, my darling husband."

"Happy Christmas, love, may all our future Christmases together make us as happy as I feel now, because even like this, in secret, I couldn't be happier."

Sybil smiled. "Neither could I."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "present" in this chapter is my rewrite of Mary coming upon Tom and Sybil after Violet has asked her if Sybil had a beau. In the show, it's the moment Tom tells Sybil, "you're in love with me," but obviously that's not what's happening here. The scene starts with Mary, but you can assume Sybil and Tom were having a normal/happy conversation.

 

**January 1917**

_"I still don't see why we have to be the ones to stay at the pub," Kieran says in a huff._

_Elizabeth rolls her eyes at her husband. "One night isn't going to kill you, and anyway, no bride should be at a pub on her wedding night."_

_"Plenty of them have done it," Kieran replies._

_"And I wouldn't have minded, really," Sybil puts in._

_"Nonsense!" Elizabeth exclaims. "The ones who have done it, bless them, likely had no other options. You do. This one will have his fill of beer and be happy to walk only a few feet and a flight of stairs to bed."_

_Tom chuckles as Kieran rolls his eyes at his wife's frankness._

_"You're too kind," Sybil says. "I hope we may repay the favor someday."_

_Elizabeth smiles. "And I'll look forward to that. Now, we'll be on our way."_

_Kieran tips his hat and a minute later, Tom and Sybil are at the entryway looking at one another a bit shyly, both feeling lightheaded and unsure about what to say next._

_Eventually, it is Tom who speaks first. "I'm sorry that th—"_

_Sybil's eyes go wide as soon as the word "sorry" crosses his lips and she practically slaps him as her hand lands on his mouth to stop him talking. "If you're going to apologize for the circumstances under which we've gotten married one more time . . ." Sybil pauses and lets out a sigh. "Just don't."_

_Tom takes the hand that is over him mouth, kisses it then holds it in his hand. "Love, it's only that—"_

_"Only that you're ashamed in how we've done it?"_

_"No!"_

_"Well, neither am I! So stop acting as if you've done me a great disservice! I'm happy that we're married. Why should I be bothered with how we've done it? The vows we've spoken are all that matter. The rest is just silliness and rituals that women obsess over because society gives them no room to concern themselves with anything else. If I cared about any of that I wouldn't be here. And I was being honest when I told Elizabeth that spending my wedding night in a public house would have been fine by me. It would have been better than fine because it would be with you. If you continue to make these apologies and statements that this is not enough, I'll begin to wonder whether it's not enough for you."_

_Tom's heart swells with pride as Sybil speaks. When she finishes he leans down and kisses her. Keeping his hands around her face, he closes his eyes, leans his forehead against hers and speaks._

_"When my Aunt Aoife married, I was eight. We had a massive party. There was food for days . . . in my family, we worked from the time we could walk. Whether it was helping mam at home with the laundry or in actual jobs. She gave us as much of a childhood as she could, but it wasn't much. That wedding was the only time I remember us all happy. Not worrying about things like money or when the next job would come." He laughs to himself. "I suppose I hadn't realized until just now how much I'd clung to that memory. How much it had made me look forward to my own wedding."_

_He opens his eyes again and feels tears pooling in them looking at her open expression of love. "Between that and this, I'd choose this every day because I would choose you every day."_

_Sybil beams. "Me too."_

_After a moment, a sparkle comes over her eyes and she asks innocently, "So shall I make us some tea, then?"_

_Tom lets out a guffaw and steps away to sweep her into his arms. "Tea can wait," he says and carries her up the stairs into the guest room where she's been staying._

_She giggles all the way up, and continues to giggle between kisses as he sets her down and the two fall unceremoniously onto the bed. Eventually, the laughter dies away as passion takes over and the kisses become more heated. Sybil doesn't know how long they've been on the bed when Tom pulls away slightly to look down on her for a moment. His hair, tousled by her fingers, falls over and just barely grazes her forehead._

Is it really that long? _She thinks_.

_There is love, of course, in his eyes, but something else too. Something Sybil can't put her finger on. It is as if she is seeing him for the first time. The real Tom, one hidden by the uniform and the hair pomade and the false veneers erected by society to separate them. She was able to see enough of him through it all to fall in love and take this leap, and now here he is—the whole of him—to catch her. The real Tom._

My Tom.

_She threads her fingers through his hair again and pulls him down into another kiss. This one slower, deeper than all the ones before. She feels it in her belly, a warm ball of light inside her growing larger and larger until every part of her is glowing._

_She wants him. She_ needs _him._

_He moves his lips from hers and onto her neck, making her grow warmer and warmer with every touch._

_She opens her eyes to try to get a hold of herself, and as he continues his ministrations, she manages to whisper, "My dress. Tom, my dress."_

_"Of course. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he says, moving off of her quickly, assuming she is concerned about damaging the delicate fabric. "I wasn't thinking."_

_"No, no," she says sitting up with a smile. "I just mean . . . let's take it off."_

_Tom laughs and leans in for another kiss before pulling away again to stand at the foot of the bed. Sybil scoots to the edge of it and holds out her hand for him to help her up._

_They stand slowly, staying close and never taking their eyes off each other. Sybil gently pushes off Tom's suit jacket, moving her hands slowly over his chest to the buttons of his waistcoat._

_"Have you ever done this before?"_

_Her voice, even as quiet as it is, startles him out of the trance he was in from their kisses just moments before._

_Sybil watches his cheeks go slightly red and smiles. "It's all right if you have."_

_Tom's smile softens. "Technically, I suppose the answer is yes, but I was young and extremely foolish—and lucky that nothing came of it."_

_"For the girl, you mean?"_

_Tom nods, then laughs. "She wasted little time in being short of me when it was done. I can hardly blame her now. I didn't really know what I was doing, and it was over barely after we'd begun."_

_"Do you think it will be different for us?" Sybil asks, her expression growing serious._

_"I do."_

_"What makes you so sure? Have you had more practice since?"_

_Tom chuckles. "No, but it's different with you and me. I love you, for a start."_

_Sybil's expression softens into a smile again. She has not stopped her unbuttoning as they have been speaking, so when she lifts herself up onto her toes and kisses him, she pushes off his waistcoat and shirt and wraps her arms around his almost bare torso. Through the thin layer of his undershirt, his skin feels warm and soft._

_They kiss until they are both out of breath. Sybil turns in his arms so he can unbutton her dress and says with a laugh, "I'm afraid this dress won't go down without a fight. To say nothing of my corset."_

_Tom laughs too. "One last barrier for us to tear down."_

_"It sounds silly but it's so very true. Without the clothes we normally wear who would know you and I had to go to any trouble at all to get married. If I . . ."_

_Sybil's words turn into a long quiet sigh as she feels Tom kiss her at the top of her back. His lips move slowly up to her neck and she tilts her head to the side. Later, Sybil won't remember exactly how long it took Tom to finish unfastening her dress, but it comes off eventually, as does the corset. Because Sybil dressed herself, the garment is tied on rather loosely and comes off more easily than she anticipated. She turns in his arms and just like that Tom pulls it over her head. Sybil does the same with his undershirt, and they come together in a frantic kiss. She considered the various ways intimacy with him would affect her, but she hadn't truly prepared herself for the feeling of her skin against his. She wants to touch and kiss every part of him with an urgency that surprises her._

_The two fall onto the bed again and with fumbling fingers push down Sybil's knickers and Tom's pants until they are both completely naked. They realize this at the same time and slow down their kissing until they are just holding each other._

_After a minute, Tom whispers, "I wish I could put into words what I'm feeling right now, but it's as if I'm feeling everything all at once."_

_"Me, too," Sybil says with a radiant smile. "I feel like the luckiest person in the world."_

_"Lucky like the Irish?" Tom whispers into her lips as he pulls her toward him into a kiss. They both laugh through the kiss until passion overtakes them both once again, and in a mad, joyful scramble of limbs, they pull the bed sheets over their heads._

ooo

_"How do you feel?"_

_Sybil sighs into her pillow, feeling herself blush as Tom's eyes narrow and a playful smile comes over his lips. They are lying on their sides, facing each other, their arms holding each other loosely and their faces only inches apart._

_"Happy," she says finally._

_Tom bites his lip. "Well, I'm happy too, but . . . I meant more . . . physically how do you feel?"_

_Sybil thinks for a moment. "Are you asking if it was painful?"_

_"Was it?"_

_Sybil shrugs. "Not painful . . . there was some discomfort at first, I'll admit, but it was the oddness of the sensation when my nerves were already so heightened." Sybil moves her hand and without warning pushes her finger up Tom's nose._

_He pulls away quickly and looks at her as if she's gone mad. "What d'ya do that for?"_

_Sybil laughs. "I was trying to show you what it felt like."_

_"Making love to me felt like someone sticking their finger up your nose!?"_

_Sybil laughs again. "No, it was more pleasant than that. That first moment, though . . . I have no better way of explaining it."_

_Tom huffs, which causes Sybil to laugh again. She leans in and kisses him on the mouth. "I feel good," she said. "And you?"_

_"Never better."_

_Sybil leans in and kisses him again, longer this time and deeper. When she pulls away, though, Tom sees a more serious expression in her eyes. "We probably can't do it again—not quite like that, until we know what we'll do about my family . . . more like, what we'll do in the event they cast me out. Being with child will just . . ."_

_"They'll assume that was the reason?"_

_Sybil nods._

_"What do you want to tell them? And when?"_

_"To be honest, Tom, the matter I'm most worried about at the moment is finishing my course. If I did that, then I'd have some training for a job, which I'll likely need. And my desire to aid in the war effort hasn't changed."_

_Tom rolls onto his back and lets out a long sigh. He runs his fingers through his hair and thinks for a moment._

_Sybil pushes herself up on her elbow. "What is it?"_

_"Honestly?"_

_Sybil nods._

_"I agree that you'll need job, but training won't be enough."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"You'll need experience . . . plenty of it too, if anyone is going to believe someone with a posh accent like you is actually willing and able to work. Especially in Ireland."_

_A sinking feeling comes over Sybil. "There's only one place that would take me now, isn't there?"_

_Tom lets out a humorless laugh. "Downton Hospital."_

_"And there's only one way it'll take me."_

_"If you're Lady Sybil Crawley."_

_"And not Mrs. Tom Branson."_

_"It pains me to say it love, but if you want to work, that means we'll have to go back and pretend nothing has happened . . . at least until you've experience enough that someone who doesn't know you would be willing to employ you."_

_"Could we really go back and keep such a secret?" Sybil asks._

_Tom sits up to look her in the eyes. "We'll have to. It's the only way."_

_Sybil feels her chest tighten as the truth falls over them both. This intimacy will be gone at Downton. "How long do you think we'd have to?"_

_"I don't know, love." Tom lifts his hand to her face and pushes a stray hair away. "I wish it could be different, but—"_

_"I know. If it's what must be done, and we agree that it is, there's no sense in wishing it away. This is just the way it will be for us, and we'll make the best of it. Starting now."_

_Tom smiles at her determination. "Now?"_

_Sybil nodds. "I can't become pregnant. But . . . well, I wouldn't have thought so but according to Caroline, I don't have to. There are other . . . ways of doing it."_

_Tom furrows his brow playfully, laying back down. "Oh?"_

_Sybil grins, climbing on him again. "Oh, yes."_

xxx

**March 1918**

Violet's pestering about Richard and Lavinia and Sybil of all people had given Mary something of a headache, so she was glad for the walk back to the house from the village to clear her mind. She'd likely missed luncheon, but she had time to take something in her room before the errands she intended to run in Ripon later in the afternoon. Thinking of that, as she walked up the drive to the house, Mary veered toward the garage.

When she initially came upon the scene—Sybil talking to Branson—she thought nothing of it, but her grandmother's words came into her mind suddenly and Mary stopped to really look at what she was seeing.

_War breaks down barriers, and when peacetime re-erects them, it can be very easy to find oneself on the wrong side._

And just like that, the picture in front of her appeared and re-appeared in Mary's memory of the last year.

Sybil talking to Branson in the garage.

Sybil talking to Branson in the driveway.

Sybil talking to Branson in the library.

It was as if someone had pointed out a hidden image in a larger picture and now Mary couldn't un-see it.

They were only talking and stood an appropriate distance apart, but Mary was close enough to see that Sybil was smiling. It was a smile Mary knew well—a smile of familiarity and comfort.

A smile that made Mary's heart drop into her gut.

She took a step forward and made an effort to knock around the gravel beneath her feet so she could be heard.

Both Branson and Sybil turned to see her, but only Sybil seemed to stiffen.

_He's as self-possessed as all servants should be_ , Mary thought before she addressed him: "Branson, could you take me into Ripon at three?"

Turning to Sybil, she added, "I'm getting some things for Mama, is there anything you want?"

Sybil tried to meet Mary's stare, but something made her feel as if Mary wasn't simply looking at her but into her. "I want many things," Sybil said finally, trying to take a joking tone to ease the tension she started to feel between herself and Mary. "Though I'm afraid none of them will be found in Ripon."

Understanding that the moment she had been sharing with her husband was over, Sybil exchanged one more glance with Tom before turning to go inside through the service entrance, but she'd hardly taken three steps when Mary called out to her.

"Are you going in?" Mary asked, nodding her head toward the way she had come, which was to say, the path to the front door.

Sybil pulled her lips into her mouth to keep herself from rolling her eyes, but still changed directions to walk toward Mary and passed her. "That way is shorter."

Mary followed and the sisters fell into step together.

"Shorter, but not easier," Mary said in a way that made Sybil wonder if there was something in her tone. She didn't wonder long for in her next words, Mary didn't bother being circumspect.

"What were you talking to Branson about?"

Sybil looked straight ahead. "Nothing."

"Then why were you there?" Mary prodded.

Sybil stopped abruptly, but when she turned to Mary, Mary didn't seem startled by Sybil's sudden mood change, which set Sybil further on edge.

"Why were _you_ there?" she snapped.

"Because I was ordering the motor. That is why one talks to chauffeurs, isn't it? To plan journeys by road."

Sybil exhaled loudly and began to walk even more quickly than before toward the front door, which was now in view. "He is a person," she said, once again not bothering to look at Mary. "He can discuss other things."

"I'm sure he can," Mary replied, in her usual measured tone. "But not with you."

Sybil felt like she could have burst into laughter or tears. She'd been keeping her marriage a secret for more than a year now—had had numerous "close calls" with Tom, but none affected her the way Mary's prodding was doing now. She didn't want to keep lying. She didn't want to appease Mary's snobbery. She was exhausted.

Reaching for the door knocker, she felt Mary's hand taking her arm to stop her. It was not an unkind gesture, but Sybil wasn't sure what to do.

"What do you want from me?" she said finally. "Am I to see if Sir Richard Carlisle has a younger brother? One who's even richer than he is?"

Mary saw the exhaustion in her sister's eyes, but didn't know what to make of it. "Darling, what's the matter with you? I'm on your side."

"I wish you were, Mary. I really wish you were."

At that moment, the door opened, and without another word, Sybil ran inside past Thomas, who stood behind it, leaving Mary wondering what exactly Sybil had gotten herself into.

A strange feeling overcame Mary, like a premonition, that a dam was about to break.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features the last flashback, which takes us from Tom and Sybil's morning after to their return to York (for Sybil) and Downtown (for Tom). The "present" action happens amid the action of episode 2.04, which is the one where Matthew and William go missing and then Matthew turns up to sing with Mary. Reference is made to the concert, though the action of the chapter ends just before. I repurpose some dialogue from that episode and in the case of the conversation between Edith and Mary, crunch the timeline a bit. On the show that convo happens days after Robert has discovered that Matthew and William are missing, but here it happens the same night.

 

_Sybil wakes before Tom does. She knows that sleeping at his leisure is the rarest of luxuries for him. She considers waking him to make the most of this time alone together, knowing it will be weeks, perhaps more, before it will be like this again. A look at the clock reveals that it's only half past seven, though. They don't need to hurry yet, and she's content to just watch him sleep. The gentle rise and fall of his chest soothes the worries about what will happen when her family finds out that continue to tickle the back recesses of her mind._

_Before too long, she puts her hand on his chest and smiles when Tom, still sound asleep as far as she can tell, brings his hand up to cover hers. His body is warm, soft beneath her fingertips. On the back of her hand, though, she can feel the roughness of the callouses on his fingers and palm._

_She feels safe. More so than she ever has, and more conscious of her own body as well. Her body is relaxed now, from the hours of rest, but she feels a benign fatigue in her muscles. Making love to Tom was at once entirely what she'd expected and wholly different from what she'd imagined. She doesn't remember any pain during the act, but there is a small measure of soreness between her legs that feels less like actual pain and more like a realization that there are nerves and skin and muscles down there that she'd never thought about before—and all of them, all of_ her _is alive and humming, like she is hungry, but not for food._

_Sybil slides her hand from Tom's chest, slowly up his neck, to his face. Her love for Tom was never centered on his looks, but especially now, in this soft morning light, she thinks of how beautiful he is, of how many women's heads he could have turned, of how he chose her despite all the risks. She feels proud, beautiful._

_"Tom," she whispers. "Tom."_

_He clears his throat and rubs his eyes with his hand before turning to her. His eyes are sleepy, but still bright, happy, and to her delight, they reveal the same desire she is feeling._

_"I was wondering, husband, if . . ."_

_Sybil trails off as Tom rolls toward her and, putting his arm around her, pulls her in. She feels all of him against her._

_"Yes?" His voice is thick with sleep, but his body is awake._

Hunger _._

_Sybil can't stop herself from laughing, and Tom does too. After a long moment, she sighs and says, "I didn't think I would enjoy it this much."_

_Hours later, they part ways on the platform of a train station outside Newcastle, having decided to leave nothing to chance and travel back—Sybil to York, Tom to Downton—on separate trains. Heading north, they did not yet know what marriage felt like, what fountains of joy and love they'd unleash by merely looking one another in the eye and promising to remain partners for life. Now, on the journey back south, they do know, and they will guard that future with everything they have, even if it means sacrificing their last few hours together before what will be a long separation._

_After her arrival in York, Sybil heads toward the college's campus on foot. It's early evening, and there's a chill in the air. She remembers to remove her ring just before entering her dormitory._

_The following afternoon, in lieu of tea, Caroline and Sybil head to York's commercial district. With Sybil's money in her hand, Caroline walks into a woman's shop by herself to buy a simple gold chain. She turns down all of the shopgirl's attempts to convince her to buy a pendant to go with it._

_"It's not for me," Caroline says, as the shopgirl wraps the simple chain up for her. "It's for a friend, and she has something to put on it."_

 

**March 1918**

"You're quiet today."

Sybil turned her gaze from the window and the passing scenery, so familiar now, from outside the hospital en route back to the house. She smiled as she looked at Tom's back, him having turned his attention back toward the road. "I'm fine," she said. "It was a long shift."

"It was a long day at the house too," Tom replied. "William's not been heard from, it seems. Daisy is certain something's wrong."

"But what about Captain Crawley? William serves with him."

"They're on leave," Tom said. "There's no word on where Captain Crawley might have gone, but with Mrs. Crawley in France . . . "

"He might have stayed," Sybil finished for him.

"William was meant to come here, so Daisy says."

"Does my father know? He might look into it."

"He'll likely be told soon, if he hasn't been already."

Having arrived at the house, Tom turned toward the garage, Sybil having long left behind the custom of being dropped off at the front door. Once the car was in the garage and parked, he turned to her in his seat with a smile, which she returned. She thought for a moment, then said, "Mary might know where Matthew is. She wrote to him to tell him of his engagement."

"He replied?" Tom asked.

"I don't know."

Tom bit his lip, pausing momentarily to wonder whether he should say what he was about to say. Finally, he spoke, "Speaking of Mary . . . "

Sybil looked away. She'd been expecting it since Mary had caught them in the garage. "She doesn't suspect."

"Sybil—"

"She _doesn't_."

Tom turned back around, not bothering to hide his frustration. "She doesn't suspect were married because the idea is so far afield from possibility in her mind, but she suspects _something_."

Sybil took a deep breath. "She won't tell anyone."

"Are you sure?"

Sybil nodded. "Fairly. She would confront me about it first, and she more or less did that in the moment."

Tom turned back to look Sybil in the eye. "It's not just Mary."

"What do you mean?"

"More than once I've read the question from home about what I'm still doing here."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "You're working. Why would they question that?"

"A lot's going on Ireland . . . it's a war. It may not look or feel to you like the one on the continent, but it's a war just the same."

"Tom, I understand how you feel about Ireland."

"No, I don't think you do, Sybil."

"But Tom—"

"And how could you when this house is the only place you've ever been!"

"That's not fair!"

Tom sighed. "I know it's not. But . . . I lost a cousin in the Easter Rising last year. I've told you that."

Sybil looked down at her hands. "You have."

"Irish independence means something to me, and to my family, and now that it's taken one of our own, they wonder what I'm still doing serving the class that would just as soon we'd all starved to death."

Knowing there was nothing she could say, Sybil scooted up in the back seat so she could rest her hand on Tom's shoulder.

Tom set his hand on Sybil's and turned to face her again. He continued, quietly, "This ridiculous war . . . the way it's dragging on. We can't let it drag us down. When we said we'd wait until it was over, we didn't consider it could go on indefinitely, but it's starting to feel like it will have no end, and go on and on until there are no poor young men to send to fight. Doesn't it feel that way to you?"

Sybil closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Yes."

She opened her eyes again, as Tom finally got out of the motor. She watched him as he walked over to her side, opened the door and extended his hand for her to take.

"I'm not saying we should tell them now," he said. "Let's just start thinking about how we're going to do it. So that we have a plan, if we decide to do it."

Sybil nodded, taking Tom's hand. "When."

"When what?"

" _When_ we tell them," she said. "There's no 'if'."

Tom smiled in response. She turned to see if there was anyone in the yard, and seeing no one, stepped up to give him a gentle peck on the lips.

"I'll try to come down tonight," she said, and with those words was gone.

—

Dinner went on quietly, with the conversation centered mostly around the upcoming concert. There was no talk of Matthew or William, but Sybil could see a number of things were weighing on her father. She glanced over at Mary several times, but each time Mary was already looking at Sybil, and not in a way with which Sybil felt entirely comfortable. So each time, Sybil shifted her gaze.

Sybil knew that if anyone in the family could guess, perhaps not the whole truth, but the fact that something had happened between her and Tom, no doubt it would be Mary. As she picked around the food on her plate, Sybil tried to go over in her mind anything she might have done or failed to do in the last days and weeks that might have given the game away. It was more than a year on now, and for better and worse, her clandestine marriage had become so routine, so normal to her that only when she stopped to think about it did she realize the effort it took to keep the secret.

Now, however, Sybil wondered if the edges were starting to fray. If the ruse had played itself out and all that would be left was the truth.

Sybil was so deep in thought about it all that it took Violet speaking several times before Sybil realized the implications of what was on the surface an innocuous question: "So, Sybil, what are you up to, dear?"

"Nothing much," Sybil answered. "Working. I don't have time to get up to anything else."

"Only, Mary and I were talking about you, you know, the other day."

Sybil felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but she didn't visibly react. After taking a bite and swallowing, she finally looked up to see Mary once again already looking at her. Mary had heard Violet, it seemed, because she was shaking her head apologetically and mouthing, _I didn't say anything._

"Oh?" Sybil said, addressing both her sister and grandmother.

Violet responded. "Yes, you see, sometimes in war, one can make friendships that aren't quite . . . appropriate. And can be awkward, you know, later on. I mean, we've all done it. I just want you to be on your guard."

"Awkward for whom?" Sybil replied, now clearly annoyed.

"Well, don't jump down my throat, dear. I'm only offering friendly advice."

Sybil turned to look at Violet, whose eyes had that "Who me?" look about them that Sybil hated so much. Violet knew exactly what she was talking about, but she would never speak of it outright and never suggest she was giving Sybil a warning. There were so many things Sybil hated about the life her family led and few irritated her as much as the unwillingness to speak plainly and from the heart. It was as if they found it gauche to talk openly about crossing social boundaries, because they understood such boundaries to be reprehensible, so they only spoke of them with innuendo and suggestion, raising their noses not in distaste but in an effort to willfully pretend they didn't exist.

_Friendly advice_ , indeed, Sybil thought. _Friendships that aren't quite appropriate._

"Mere friendship is the least of your worries, granny," was what Sybil really wanted to say. But she stayed silent.

In fact, Sybil and Violet didn't say much more to each other for the remainder of the meal, and Sybil specifically avoided Mary's eyes. After it was all done, Sybil was in no mood for useless patter, so when it was time to walk through she peeled off to the library with the intention of heading to her room afterward and, after everyone was asleep, to the cottage.

Mary was on her heels, of course, but Sybil didn't bother looking back or acknowledging her.

Perhaps the anger she was now feeling toward her sister was irrational, but Sybil kept going back to the moment of Mary's interruption in the garage. She had seen nothing. _Nothing!_ Merely what could be easily interpreted as two friends having a conversation. That such an innocuous interaction was enough to send Mary to Violet and Violet back to Sybil raised Sybil's ire more than she had expected. It was a result only of having kept in the back of her mind the idea that her family would understand her, accept her for who she was and accept Tom as her choice of husband.

But if she couldn't even talk to him in their presence without it setting off alarms in everyone's head, then the fight would be harder and longer than she had hoped.

"Sybil!" Mary called out.

Sybil entered the library without acknowledging her.

"Sybil! I never said anything to Granny, honestly."

Sybil stopped in front of a shelf and crossed her arms, looking down, as Mary finally caught up to her. "Then why did she suddenly start talking about inappropriate friendships out of nowhere?"

"She thinks you must have a beau, and if we don't know about him, then you have to be keeping him secret. It's just Granny being Granny. Don't make such a thing of it."

Sybil sighed. She believed Mary, but for Violet's guess to be so close to the mark, she wondered again if she and Tom had left some evidence, let their guard down just long enough for a seed to have planted itself in her grandmother's mind and rooted to the point that she felt compelled to bring Mary into it. And again, she felt frustration and disappointment.

_Why do they have to think Tom so objectionable?_ she thought. "I don't deserve to be told off," she said to Mary. "Not by her or by you." Sybil paused, feeling the weight of the truth heavily on her shoulders, not merely a secret anymore but a burden. "I've done nothing that a reasonable, moral mind would think intolerable."

Sybil's answer concerned Mary. It was true that Sybil had always befriended the people who served the family, and it wasn't as if Mary herself wouldn't go to great lengths to help Anna or as if Robert was insincere in his wish for Bates to return or in his willingness to get to the bottom of what had driven him away. Still, this wasn't like Sybil helping a housemaid find a job, not if it involved a man . . .

Tentatively, Mary asked, "We are talking about . . .?"

Sybil swallowed a lump in her throat. She'd told herself over and over again that she wasn't lying to her family, only skirting the truth. But to answer this question in any other way would be to do just that. "Branson," she said quietly. "Yes."

Mary's heart sank. "The chauffeur? Branson?"

Sybil, having opened the door to the truth could not help but be honest now, saying, "Oh, how disappointing of you!"

"I'm just trying to get it straight in my head. You and the chauffeur."

Sybil rolled her eyes at her sister's poorly veiled snobbery. "Oh, no, you know I don't care about all of that."

"Oh, darling, darling, don't be such a baby. This isn't fairyland. What did you think? You'd marry the chauffeur and we'd all come to tea?"

Sybil turned to fully face Mary and said, "You're telling me that my expectation that my family would treat an honorable, kind person with respect regardless of birth was too high, and _I'm_ being childish!"

Mary's face softened. "Sybil, I'm not trying to upset you. It's only that if something's happened I want to know. I want to help."

"Help who?" Sybil turned to the door and called back over her shoulder. "Help granny rebuild the walls the war has torn asunder so that everyone goes back their proper place in the pecking order?"

Mary rolled her eyes, having reached her limit of Sybil's relentless self-righteousness. She ran to catch Sybil by the arm. "Why should it matter so much to you? What might've happened?"

Sybil shook her arm loose and stared her sister—her primary confidant the whole of her life—and spoke the truth. "I married him. I ran away to Scotland last year and eloped without anyone knowing, and we've been keeping it secret ever since. So granny's right. Are you happy now?"

Mary blinked several times in shock. Then, after peering at Sybil through narrowed eyes for a long moment, she smirked and let out a long breath. As she did so her shoulders sank, expressing clear relief. _She wouldn't joke about him if it were serious_ , Mary thought.

Sybil read her expression easily. _She thinks I'm making a joke._ Sybil shook her head and laughed sadly. "Goodnight, Mary."

Mary stood watching Sybil until she'd gone from her sight. The sorry state of their relationship worried Mary, but upon reflection, it didn't surprise her. She'd been wrapped up in what she would do about Richard Carlisle and her concern for Matthew fighting abroad. The letter she'd recently sent to the latter announcing her engagement to the former was harder to write than she'd anticipated. Mary was not the sentimental sort, and although she'd regretted deeply how she and Matthew had ended things at the onset of the war, she did not like to dwell on it, and certainly wouldn't now that he'd moved on to Miss Swire. Even so, setting her future down on paper, to him of all people, made it real in a way that Mary's heart still wasn't entirely sure of. Sybil, meanwhile, had dived headlong into her nursing, and her disinterest in life at Downton was all the more obvious for it.

Mary had always believed that she and Sybil—in many ways opposite sides of the same coin—kept one another in balance. Life, the war, and diverging priorities had pulled them in different directions, away from one another, and the distance was showing. With a deep breath and resolve to make things right, Mary set off for the drawing room, wondering how long Sybil had felt this ill-at-ease in her own home, to not be able to merely laugh off their grandmother's fussing.

But the longer she sat as others conversed around her, the more Sybil's words repeated over and over in Mary's head.

_I married him. I ran away to Scotland last year and eloped without anyone knowing, and we've been keeping it secret ever since._

_I married him. I ran away to Scotland last year and eloped without anyone knowing, and we've been keeping it secret ever since._

_I married him. I ran away to Scotland last year and eloped without anyone knowing, and we've been keeping it secret ever since._

As the night wore on a strange feeling came over Mary.

_What if she was telling me the truth?_

As implausible as the idea that Sybil could have managed to do such a thing was, Mary couldn't shake the thought away. Sybil had been gone from the house for weeks during her training and could have done any number of things without her parents' knowledge, but so far as Mary knew, Branson hadn't left the house since he'd arrived, not for a significant amount of time anyway—certainly not long enough to arrange marriage to a woman without her family's permission.

It was an exhausting line of thinking, and eventually, Mary excused herself to go upstairs. She didn't notice that Edith followed her until they were both at the top of the stairs and Edith spoke up.

"There's something you ought to know," Edith said nervously. "Papa said not to tell you, but I don't think he's right."

Mary's already frayed nerves were set on edge again. "Go on."

"Matthew's missing. He was on patrol and he's just sort of . . . vanished. Papa hasn't told anyone. Not even Mama. I only know because I was there when he found out. He took a call tonight, just after dinner. It didn't seem right to keep you in the dark."

Mary felt dizzy. Unable to form words, she merely nodded.

"I'm not trying to upset you, truly," Edith said with sincerity in her voice that Mary wasn't used to hearing.

"For once in my life, I believe you."

Having nothing else to say and knowing there wasn't anything she could do that Mary would accept to help her, Edith walked back downstairs.

Mary continued to her room until she turned a corner, and finally overcome by fear for Matthew and the feeling of being pulled in all directions, she started to cry, leaning her hand against the wall to keep herself from collapsing.

"You've heard, then."

Mary turned to see Anna standing behind her.

"Do they all know downstairs?

Anna nodded. "Most do, given the news is fresh, but Daisy has been worried for days now. William's missing, too. I think everyone knows except Her Ladyship."

"I wish Edith had left it 'til the morning. I could've faced it all with one more night of sleep."

Without another word, Anna took Mary's arm and led her to her room. Seeing that all Mary wanted was to be left alone, Anna did the work of undressing her and turning down the bed quickly and without a word.

Mary was sitting on the side of her bed, staring sadly into the empty space in front of her when Anna asked if she needed anything else.

Mary shook her head, but just before Anna closed the door Mary remembered herself and called out, "Anna, wait."

"Yes, milady?"

"I know this is an odd thing to ask, but has Branson ever taken leave or asked to go somewhere for a long time?"

Anna thought for a moment. "I don't think so. Has he asked to do so now?"

"No, I was just trying to remember something."

"Would you like me to ask him or Mr. Carson?"

"No, please don't. There's no need. Forget I said anything."

Anna, puzzled, turned to go, but then turned right back around to face Mary. "Actually, milady, now that I think about it. Mr. Brandon's brother was ill last year, so he went to pay him a visit, but he was only gone two days, maybe three."

"When was that?" Mary asked.

"January, I believe."

"Just months ago, then?"

"No, January of last year," Anna said, "more than a year ago."

"That would have been when Sybil was training in York," Mary said quietly, to herself.

"That's right. I don't think he's left for any longer than that since he's been here."

Mary looked at Anna. "It's a long time to be away from one's family."

Anna nodded.

"Thank you, Anna," Mary said.

Anna lingered for a moment. "Have faith, milady," she said. "He'll turn up."

Mary felt her eyes water again and looked away, which was Anna's cue to leave.

"Have faith," Mary repeated to herself once she was alone. "Have faith. He's fine. He's safe."

Mary finally moved to lay down in her bed. As she stared at her ceiling, she tried to keep herself focused on those same words, like a mantra.

_Have faith. He's fine. He's safe._

Tears kept spilling out of the sides of her eyes, but Mary paid them no mind. She cried for Matthew and for the feeling of powerlessness she felt in the face of an unforgiving world. She knew the war was going to change things. Change had been all anyone ever talked about back when it had begun. She'd believed herself be ready to embrace it, but now, years on, all she felt was left behind.

—

"I've told Mary."

Tom sat up from where he'd been lying next to Sybil in his bed in the cottage, where she'd managed to escape to once again just after one o'clock in the morning.

"You what?!"

Sybil sat up next to him. "No need to worry. She didn't believe me."

"What do you mean?"

"I said it in the heat of an argument. I think she believes I was exaggerating for effect."

"And she didn't react?"

Sybil shook her head and laid back down.

Tom laid back down too and pulled Sybil into him. "You almost seem disappointed."

"I _am_ disappointed. I told her as much. I told her the truth and she found it so seemingly outlandish she thought I was joking."

"What do you think will happen next?"

Sybil sighed and turned so her head was in the crook of Tom's neck. She laid her hand on his chest and he covered it with his. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe she'll come to her senses, tell papa and I'll be banished forever."

Tom could felt the wetness of her silent tears against his chest. "It'll be all right, darling. We'll be together no matter what happens. And that's all that matters, isn't it?"

Sybil nodded. "I don't regret what we've done. I just wish the price to pay weren't so high. The saddest part is that Mary wants to help me. She believes herself to be on my side, and while I don't doubt her sincerity, I can't help but think that she's wrong and just doesn't see it, that the walls will go back up after the war, like granny says, and my parents and my sisters and I will be on different sides and they won't understand why and hate me for it."

"I don't think they'll hate you love. I agree that there will be anger and disapproval, but surely you don't think your sisters are so unforgiving."

"I don't, but . . . "

"But what?"

Sybil pushed herself up on her elbow so she could look Tom in the face as she spoke. "You've said or hinted that I don't really want to tell them, and that I keep using the war as an excuse to keep hiding—"

"Sybil, I—"

"No, it's all right. You're right. It's true. I didn't realize it until now, but it's true. At first, hiding was a necessity, but now . . . now, it's the only way I get to keep them close and still be with you. I complain aloud all the time about how much I want to get away from this house, and this life, but the truth is I'm scared of losing them. They are why I've stood it for so long."

Tom lifted his hand to push her hair out of her face. "So imagine of how much they'd be willing to bear for _you_."

Sybil smiled through her tears and laid back down. She loved her family, but she was done loving them only on their terms.


	11. Chapter 11

The following day, the peace that Sybil and Tom felt about having made the resolution to finally tell her family of their secret marriage was set off kilter once again.

They'd agreed on no particular plan by the time Sybil had to sneak back into the house, only on an understanding that they'd set one in place soon unless an obvious moment presented itself before they could. They'd agreed more or less that any "plan" could turn out to be futile, for there would really never be a perfect moment to deliver such news. They were prepared to leave at a moment's notice if they were cast out and would be happy to do so. But by luncheon the next day, all this good feeling was overwhelmed by the growing concern felt throughout the house about Matthew and William's lingering absence. Everyone was trying to seem as if there were nothing out of the ordinary, even in the extraordinary circumstances of war, but the tension was palpable.

Sybil went about her work diligently without letting her own fears about what may have happened to her cousin from consuming her, even as they remained ever present in the back of her mind. Despite the daunting challenge that it was going to be to face her family, she knew how lucky she was to have Tom by her side. She couldn't bring herself to imagine what Downton might be like bereft, not just of another heir, but of _Matthew_. And yet, that possibility hung over the house like a heavy fog that would not lift as the day wore on. The concert, set for that evening, that everyone had been looking forward to now felt like forced merrymaking that was anything but merry.

And for no one was the day more torturous than for Mary. Matthew's absence was like a vise on Mary's heart that tightened every hour he was missing. She'd slept little, and although a stranger could have been convinced that all was right with her, Sybil could tell right away when she saw her eldest sister for the first time that day, as the family began taking their seats for the festivities, that Mary had heard the news.

Sybil was standing at the back, with the servants and the rest of the medical staff. Tom stood directly behind her. Sybil had wondered momentarily as her parents, grandmother and sisters walked past her and into the aisle to sit down, if any of them would notice or if Mary would make hay of it. But Cora, instead of asking Sybil to come sit with the family, merely extended her hand for a brief moment to squeeze Sybil's as they all walked past her. Then, when Mary, who was walking behind Cora, didn't even bother to look up, it became clear to Sybil that Mary had not spared a thought for her that day.

As the event went on and the men who were able shared their talents with the audience, Sybil occasionally left her spot to see to a patient's needs. Each time she returned to the back of the room, Tom smiled at her. She smiled back, of course, and when she turned her back to him once again and looked out over the rest of the room, she realized she was precisely where she wanted to be. No one in her family had insisted she join them was perhaps owing primarily to their preoccupation with Matthew, but there was also a measure of acceptance in it, and Sybil recognized that and clung to it.

She had heard Edith say earlier that day that Edith had managed to convince Mary to perform a song together. As the end of the event neared, however, Sybil began to wonder if, given the circumstances, Mary had begged off.

When she saw Mary standing from her seat, however, and moving toward the front of the room, introducing herself and Edith as she walked up the aisle, Sybil felt a knot forming in her throat.

"Most of you won't know how rare it is to see my sister Edith and I pulling together in a double act," Mary said. "But in wartime, we—like all of you—have more important things to worry about. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the Crawley sisters."

As Mary turned to face the crowd, Sybil immediately felt sorry for the cynicism she had thrown at her the evening before. It was true that Mary was proud and that her promise to protect Sybil, while sincere, likely would include a serious attempt at changing her mind about Tom. But even so Sybil knew Mary and Edith would never abandon her. It was that knowledge that had given her the courage to marry Tom without their knowledge or prior permission and insist to Tom's brother that her family would not make trouble.

As Edith began playing, Sybil felt her eyes begin to water.

_Sometimes, when I feel bad, and things look blue,_

_I wish a pal I had, say, one like you._

Mary's voice was light and airy, slowly filling the room with a quiet peace that might have even been called joy on a different day.

_Someone within my heart to build a throne,_

_Someone who'd never part to call my own._

Sybil felt Tom's hand graze hers momentarily. He couldn't take it and hold it as they both would have wanted—there were too many people about for that—but it was as if he sensed the emotions welling inside her and wanted to signal somehow that he was there with her.

Sybil took a deep breath to keep herself from outright crying, the sound of which was muffled by the voices of everyone in the room as they started to sing along with Mary.

_If you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy._

_Nothing else would matter in the world today._

_We could go on loving in the same old way._

Sybil heard a sharp intake of breath next to her before she turned her head, thinking it might have been a patient trying to get her attention.

But then she saw him, and by the time she looked back at Mary, for her reaction, Mary had already stopped singing.

Matthew Crawley, William Mason just behind him, was walking into the gathering slowly, almost timidly.

One part of him wished he could have done so anonymously, so he could simply watch Mary go on singing and not be fussed over. Another part felt grateful for the fussing, once it began, for Robert's eager handshake ("My dear boy, my very dear boy.") and for the warmth of a family from whom he'd be taking so much and who owed him so little. And a very small part of him—one for which he felt a measure of shame, given that now they were both engaged to others—treasured the way Mary looked at him and the knowledge that a part of her loved him still.

Sybil saw the look too. And, again, she felt reassured in her decision. Mary would never understand why Sybil had chosen Tom, of all people, but she understood love.

xxx

"Somehow we got lost and then we were trapped behind some Germans for three days," Matthew said, as he explained to Robert and Mary what had happened. "And when we got out of that, we stumbled into a field dressing station and we were immediately admitted. But we weren't in any danger, so they didn't inform our unit."

"Well, they should've jolly well told us when you got back to base," Robert said, with annoyance but also relief.

"I hope you weren't really worried," Matthew said.

"Oh, you know us," Robert said. "We like to be sure of our hero at the front."

Matthew smiled a bit bashfully. The last thing he thought of himself as was a hero.

Just then, Mrs. Hughes approached. "I beg your pardon, milord, but the Dowager Countess is leaving."

"Ah," Robert said, with a nod to Matthew and Mary, before leaving them alone.

"What will you do with the rest of your leave?" Mary asked Matthew.

"Well, since mother isn't here, I think I'll run up to London and see Lavinia."

Mary smiled, trying not to show her disappointment. It made sense that he would, of course, but having been worrying over him so intensely for the last day, she wished he wouldn't be out of her sight again so soon.

In a reminder as much to himself as her, Matthew said, "I got your letter about Carlisle."

"I hope you'll approve," Mary replied, making an effort at brightening at the mention of her fiancé. "I know you don't like him much now—"

"I hardly know him, but I'm sure I'll like him when I do. That's if he's good to you. If he's not, he'll have me to answer to."

Mary smiled at the sentiment and turned to look around the room, not sure how to respond to it. Officers continued to mill about, with hospital staff on their heels while the servants picked up after the concert. Mary's eyes landed on Sybil, who was speaking to a patient.

Noticing, Matthew said, "Nursing seems to suit her very well."

"It does," Mary said quietly.

She looked around again to see if she caught sight of the chauffeur. Mary remembered seeing him earlier, and now realized that where she'd seen him was at the back of the room as the concert started. He'd been standing behind Sybil.

"Matthew," Mary said quietly, turning to him again. "May I tell you something . . . in confidence."

Matthew's brow furrowed in concern. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure," Mary replied. "I hope not." She looked around and guided him to the small library so they could be away from prying eyes and ears.

"Well, you've perked my curiosity," Matthew said, when they sat down.

"You mentioned Sybil just now," Mary said. "And you're right. She does like nursing very much. What prompted her was the death of a friend . . . the thought that we weren't doing enough in the face of such sacrifice."

"I think mother did her bit as well," Matthew said with a smile.

Mary smiled back. "I suppose, but Sybil would have found a way even without her support. And the truth is that if the war hadn't taken so many of the young men she met during her season, something else would have stoked her desire to live life other than the way we do."

"What are you saying?"

Mary took a deep breath. " I believe, rather, I _know_ Sybil and Branson are friends, inappropriately so."

The statement surprised Matthew. "Friends?"

"I saw them talking in the garage the other day. There was no reason for her to have been there."

"But wouldn't you say you are friends with Anna?"

"Friendship is not the same between a man and a woman."

"Isn't it?"

Mary gave Matthew a knowing look, and he chuckled. "Well, I won't argue the point," he said, "but I get your meaning. Have you had any other indication that there's something between them? Something more than friendship?"

"No—well, I've tried to talk to Sybil about it, but she gets on her high horse, and it's difficult to get a straight answer. She likes him, that much is obvious. It's possible, likely even, that they've kissed based on how upset she was when I brought it up. But she's too sensible a girl to let herself be seduced." Mary paused for a moment, as her mind went to the memory of her own indiscretion—the one she'd wanted to confess to Matthew back when he proposed but couldn't bring herself to and that was still unknown to him. "At least," Mary continued, "she'd be sensible enough to want to be married first, and given her age, that's not possible, right?"

"Not in England. I don't know the particulars of the law or whether it can be skirted elsewhere, but it would be a challenge. I suppose how much of a challenge would depend on how much you think she likes him."

"Enough that I don't feel reassured now that you've said that."

Matthew watched Mary as she looked away for a moment. She was clearly quite worried.

"Would it be the greatest tragedy in the world?" he asked quietly.

"Pardon?"

"I can't say I know Branson well, but he seems—"

"He's the chauffeur," Mary said, cutting him off. "It doesn't matter what he seems."

Matthew prodded. "Doesn't it?"

"She'd be cast out of society," Mary said, with some alarm in her voice. "Not to mention papa would go through the roof."

"But he wouldn't abandon her, would he? Would you?"

Mary looked intently into Matthew's eyes, as if he were asking something other than the question he was asking, as if she'd revealed a part of her character she'd not allowed him to see before. "No," she said finally, looking away. "Of course, I wouldn't. But there would be people in our lives who would. Not family, perhaps, but close friends. She would not be welcome anywhere in London, certainly not at court. Her life would be very difficult, nothing like what it is now."

"You just said yourself that she doesn't care about such things."

Mary took a deep breath, and Matthew could sense she was losing her patience with him. She was about to speak again, but he spoke first: "Look, Mary, I am not sure why I'm playing devil's advocate with you. It's really not for me to have an opinion, but . . . "

"But?"

"The world is changing. I know it seems like a trite refrain, but it's true. The men I serve with . . . some of them came into my unit with nothing but clothes the Army had given them. I've seen them save lives, including my own. I've seen them honor a country and king that wouldn't turn to look at them on the street. I've seen them hold and comfort their compatriots as they lay dying." Matthew swallowed a lump in his throat. "If I make it through and am lucky enough to have a daughter someday, and one of these men were to ask me for her hand, who am I to tell them they aren't worthy?"

Mary smiled tightly, moved by the clear emotion in his voice. "You are the heir to the earl of Grantham."

Matthew smiled sadly. "I am the son of a doctor from Manchester who, but a few years ago, was not good enough to sit next to you at dinner."

Mary looked down.

"I don't mean to embarrass you," he said, sincerely. "I remain entirely unworthy of you attention."

Mary laughed to disguise the shame she felt about the secret he did not know. "I wouldn't say that."

They sat quietly for a moment. The noise from beyond the door had died down.

"I would never judge you, Mary," Matthew said, "or any of the reasons certain things are important to you and your family. But eventually, sooner than you think, this war will end, and those things won't be as important to as many people as was the case before the war. Consider whether they are more important to you than Sybil is."

He wanted to say more, but he couldn't. So he stood to leave. He was at the door when Mary's voice called him back.

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"These men that you serve with, they best keep you safe, or they'll have me to answer to."

Matthew smiled, then left.

Eventually, Mary stood and left the room as well. She caught sight of Sybil several times that evening but couldn't think of a way to approach her that wouldn't leave them both on the defensive once again.

Mary realized there was no other way around it. She had to talk to Tom Branson herself.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps ahead about a month. I know that may seem weird given where Mary was at the end of the last chapter, but I think you'll understand the need for the jump by the end of the chapter. On the show, 1918 takes place over several episodes and the jumps are big but vague, so forgive me if I do the same with my writing.
> 
> I also bring up Tom's family, their potential reaction and his transition to newspaper work here all for the first time. All of these things are details the show just glossed over, and since the focus of the story is the secret marriage, how they hid it and how the family finds out, I'm not going to spend a whole lot of time on them either.

 

**May 1918**

"But, love, you've said yourself that your mother was more likely to support us than your father!"

Sybil rubbed her eyes, tired and frustrated, as Tom paced in front of her.

She was sitting beneath a tree in an out-of-the-way spot between the village and the house. They had just finished sharing the lunch that Mrs. Patmore had prepared for Sybil and that Tom had delivered to the hospital for her. As they ate, they talked through the various scenarios by which they could tell Sybil's family about their marriage, and despite the urgency that they both felt regarding the need to make the revelation, they could not bring themselves to agree on just how to do it. Sybil felt all the more irritated when Tom stood and started pacing, a nervous habit of his that she didn't particularly like. Tom's pacing wasn't doing anything to calm his nerves either, but he kept at it, as if the answer might come to him if he just kept moving.

"I know what I've said," Sybil retorted. "And mama _will_ be supportive once the shock has worn off. I'm certain of it, but that doesn't mean it would be wise to tell her before we tell papa."

Tom stopped his pacing and turned to Sybil. "But wouldn't she help us convince him?"

"Yes, and she will do that regardless of when we tell her," Sybil insisted. "They're both going to need time, but she'll see more easily than he that this is what I want and accept it—and then get him to do the same. But if we tell her, she's sure to tell granny or Mary and Edith or all of them. If we tell papa last, he won't like it. He'll feel ambushed."

"He's going to feel ambushed regardless," Tom said with a roll of his eyes.

"Know him so well, do you?" Sybil said with a smirk.

Tom couldn't help but chuckle. "I think I do. You'd be surprised how unguarded he can be among servants."

"I suppose I shouldn't be. I was unguarded with you as well."

Tom sat down again next to Sybil. "You were open with me. There's a difference."

Sybil smiled and leaned over to peck him on the lips. After letting out a deep breath, she said, "You're right that he'll feel attacked by the news we give him whether we tell everyone at once or leave him for last. My wanting to tell them all at once isn't really about him."

"Then, why?"

"It's about me."

"You?"

"I can't make the speech multiple times," Sybil said. "I can't look Mary in the eye and tell her what I've done and see the disappointment in her face, then do it all over again with Edith, and then mama and then granny. Because they will all be disappointed. Even if they come around. Even if they know deep down that a marriage like ours is what I always wanted, it's not what they would have hoped for me. I can take the recriminations and the insistence that I'm being a foolish girl in one go. But I can't take it over and over and over again. I am human after all."

Tom lifted his hand to her face and swiped his thumb over her cheek as a small single tear rolled down.

"Well, you won't be alone. Just remember that." Tom took a deep breath. "We'll do it your way. They are your family, after all."

"When?" Sybil asked.

"When?"

"When should we tell them?"

"When are they most likely to be all together already? If you have to go to each one to ask them to gather for an announcement each will know something's up and press you on it on the spot."

"You're probably right," Sybil said with a sigh. "After dinner some night, then. After the men have come through. I can't think of another time that wouldn't have to be orchestrated."

"How long do you need to prepare?"

"A speech or my suitcases?"

Tom laughed. "Both."

Sybil bit her lip. "What about your newspaper job?"

Tom looked away. For weeks, he'd been writing to several Republican papers for a position—any position. In their letters, his family had kept him informed of all that was happening back home. And having expressed a desire to participate in Ireland's struggle for independence with words rather than bullets, his eldest brother Kieran had made mention of several underground papers that were looking for writers and informants. It was a long shot, Tom knew, but it was a step in the direction he wanted to go. Still, nothing had come of it yet.

"You don't have to have a job when we go," Sybil said quietly. "It's not as if that's the thing that's going to make the difference with my parents."

"I know," Tom said. "But I do need one, and it would help—with them _and_ with mine."

"Has your mother written back?"

Tom shook his head. "Like I said, having a job will help."

Not wanting to end lunch on a sad note, Sybil wiped her hands and stood, holding her hand out for Tom to take it. "Well, we've told ourselves we chose to marry the way we did because we didn't need anyone's permission. That's still true."

He smiled as he stood. "If we both hated our families, this would all be much easier."

Laughing, Sybil leaned into peck Tom on the lips, but he held her hips firmly against his, and the kiss deepened as Sybil wrapped her arms around his neck. They sighed into each other as they pulled away.

"This was always going to be the hardest part," she said. "We'd have told everyone long ago if we didn't love them so much and didn't want to risk losing them."

"I don't think they'll see it that way," Tom said, "But then what's family good for if not to surprise you when you most need it."

Sybil's eyes shined as he spoke. She leaned in for one more kiss and finally they separated to pick up after themselves and head back to the motor. It was high time that Sybil head back to the house, lest anyone discover she didn't come straight home from the hospital after her shift.

"Do you have a busy afternoon?" she asked as the motor got on its way back to the main road.

"Not particularly," Tom replied. "Just driving Lady Mary to the dressmaker."

xxx

The morning after Mary had resolved to speak to Branson about Sybil, Sybil joined the family for breakfast for the first time in what felt like weeks. Matthew, who had spent the night at the house at Robert's insistence, was there as well. Both were in fine moods—everyone was, and had been since once the cloud that had settled over the concert the night before lifted as Matthew and William had walked into the room.

Even though Matthew left shortly after breakfast, to London, Mary was made happy by the opportunity, however brief, to spend time with her two favorite people. Sybil, in particular, seemed warmer with everyone, surer of herself too. What Mary didn't—and obviously couldn't—know was that the change she was seeing in Sybil stemmed from the resolution Sybil had made not to go on delaying the inevitable. Knowing that the revelation of the truth would change things irrevocably between her and her family and knowing that she and Tom would leave for Dublin eventually, she wanted to make the most of the time she had.

But Mary didn't know. She _couldn't_ know. So in her ignorance, for the rest of that day and the days that followed, Mary wondered whether whatever upheaval Branson was bringing to Sybil's life was already beginning to run its course and whether Sybil might see reason all on her own.

Richard remained in London, where Mary did not feel burdened by his presence, their engagement still only a private understanding. The unusual tension that had marked her interactions with Sybil dissipated, and Mary stopped noticing Sybil and Branson's unusual behavior mainly only because she stopped looking for it. Mary might have gone on thinking that everything was returning to normal had she not, about a month after the concert, watched a moment between Branson and Sybil together that woke her once again, like a bucket of ice water to the face.

It was a Sunday and because of a rain that had persisted all morning, the family drove to church instead of taking their usual walk through the village. On their return home, Sybil got out last, putting her left hand into Branson's as she stepped onto the driveway. The act of taking the chauffeur's hand for help stepping out was not unusual—it was that neither Sybil nor Branson was wearing gloves. It was an unusually cold day and Mary remembered seeing Sybil fidget with the tips of her gloves as she listened to the sermon at Downton Church. Indeed, it seemed as if both had removed them only moments before for the very purpose of touching skin-to-skin.

Mary might not have noticed at all but for turning to see if Sybil was still behind her as she walked through the front door. When Sybil caught up to her, she smiled at Mary as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Mary looked back to see Branson watching them. Their eyes met for a brief second, but his face was expressionless as he turned to get back into the motor to drive it to the garage.

Mary made no mention of it to Sybil or anyone else. Later that afternoon, she asked Anna to order the motor for her for the next day.

xxx

Branson was waiting with the motor door open when she stepped out of the house. Mary climbed in without a word and watched him closely as he settled into the driver's seat. He didn't ask where she was going, obviously having been given his orders from Carson, and throughout the twenty-minute drive to Ripon, both remained silent.

It wasn't until they had arrived at Madam Swan's that Mary realized that she hadn't bothered to make an appointment for the sake of her ruse. It was likely the dressmaker would make time for her if she really wanted it, but prolonging the outing seemed senseless to her now. So it was that when Tom opened the door for her, and looked into the motor, wondering why she wasn't getting out, Mary said plainly and without preamble, "What do you intend with my sister?"

The question was so unexpected that Tom blinked several times, and even looked away from Mary, doubting his own faculties. _Could she really have just said that?_ Realizing that his mind was not actually playing tricks on him and that Mary continued to look at him expecting an answer, he said finally, "I beg your pardon, milady?"

"You heard what I said," Mary replied. "What are your intentions with Lady Sybil? I know you are interested in her, and I know that you know how dire the consequences could be for her if she were to act on her interest in you. I don't believe you a dishonorable person, so I have to ask what you are playing at."

A slew of emotions welled inside Tom, and though he managed to keep his face expressionless, he could also see from Mary's own eyes that he was well past the point of pretending he did not understand what she was talking about or denying any of it.

He thought for a split second about coming clean, but so much was riding on how Sybil's family was told. They had disagreed on how she would do it, but never that it had to be her. Even if he were going to be present at the moment—and that had always been his intention—the family had to know that this was Sybil's own decision, and they could only begin to do so by hearing it from her own mouth. Still, Tom did not want to be outright dishonest.

"I have no ill intentions toward Lady Sybil," he responded.

"You may think that to be true, but you are putting her at great risk."

Mary's voice was even, but the concern in it was obvious. She remained seated in the motor, with Tom standing just outside of it, there was hardly a circumstance by which the power imbalance of their relationship could be more plain. She was worried, sure, but she also seemed confident, as if all he needed to stop loving Sybil was to be told to do so by a social superior.

He felt his cheeks warm with annoyance. "I wonder that you would ask me about my intentions when you've already made up your mind about what may come."

Mary's eyes widened slightly, in shock that he would respond so firmly. Tom wanted to laugh, but didn't.

"So you are prepared to admit that you are friends with her?"

"I am," Tom said quietly. "I dare say she's friends with many of the staff."

"You know very well that the kind of friendship I am speaking about is not one Sybil has with the rest of the staff, and you do yourself no favors my being coy with me," she said quickly, the pace of her speech revealing her frustration for the first time.

Tom held her stare. "Well, then, say what you mean to say to me and be done with it."

"Lady Sybil has a wide open heart," Mary replied. "I will not see it be taken advantage of."

"I have not taken advantage of her!"

"Not physically, perhaps, but she is young," Mary insisted, "She's impressionable. She has ideas of the world that are simply not the way things are. Can't you see the danger she could be in if—"

"If what? She doesn't pretend I don't exist but to do your family's bidding?"

Mary looked away. Tom was surprised to see a measure of discomfort in her expression, as if she understood that the social boundary she was insisting on was not something she wanted to defend.

Tom took a deep breath, eager to calm the anger he knew would be of no help to him in this moment. "You may think my company undesirable, milady, but Lady Sybil is of her own mind. I could no more tell her what do to than tell the sun not to rise every morning."

Mary was still looking away, but Tom could see a vague hint of a smile on her face. "I can't argue with that," Mary said, turning back to him. "But whatever you wish to happen between you, or whatever you think may be possible—it isn't. Think me a snobbish ogre, if you must, but let's focus on where we agree. Surely, you can see all the obstacles that stand in your way, don't you?"

"I do."

"And surely, you want the best for her, as I do, don't you?"

"I do."

"Good. I won't presume to ask you to leave the house, but I must ask that you promise to . . . leave her alone."

Tom looked away for a moment. _Don't lie._ "No."

Once again, the firmness of his answer, his unwillingness to merely accept what Mary was telling him and to do as she asked took Mary aback. "No? But—"

"With all due respect, milady," Tom cut in, "you've asked me if Lady Sybil and I are friends, and I've said we are. You've hinted as to the nature of our friendship, and you seem to think that my status as your employee gives you some say in how I conduct my personal business."

"When it's to do with my sister, it is my business!"

"Well, then I reckon this is between you and her."

Tom waited to see if Mary, clearly angry, would say anything more. After a moment of tense silence, he said, quietly, "Will you be getting out?"

Mary shook her head but did not meet his eyes. Once Tom was back in the driver's seat, Mary watched his back for a few minutes. He had said virtually nothing, which told her everything. He was of strong character. That could not be denied.

_If he'd done what I asked, he'd not be someone in whom Sybil would ever express interest_ , she thought, resigned.

Letting out a long sigh, Mary said, "Let's go home, Branson."

There was no anger in her voice. Concern, yes, and resignation. And maybe, for the most hopeful of ears, a hint of the coming acceptance. But not anger.

Much later, Tom would tell Sybil that was the moment he knew everything would be all right.

xxx

Mary was out of the motor so fast after they'd returned to the house that Tom felt certain that trying to talk to Sybil before Mary did, to warn her, would be impossible, for surely Mary would go directly to her.

That had been Mary's intention when she practically ran back into the house, but despite looking in what felt like very room upstairs, Mary didn't find her. Instead, she kept running into Edith, which frustrated her all the more. By the third time Mary and Edith saw each other in Mary's search, Edith asked her what was so urgent that she needed to see Sybil about. Mary pushed past Edith with an eye roll and not much else.

Feeling helpless and frustrated, Mary finally went back to her room to finally take off her hat and coat. She did so with Anna's help as always, and Anna filled her in on the difficulty Bates was having disengaging himself from his former wife. Bates had paid the woman off, and Anna was hopeful that soon they'd be able to move on. Anna's presence and her optimism in the face such challenges had a soothing effect on Mary. In retrospect, she was glad not to have found Sybil in the state her emotions were in when she had first gotten back. Given the urgency she felt, it was likely a confrontation would have ensured, and Mary feared pushing Sybil away and further into Branson's arms.

Sybil had been in an out-of-the-way room in the servants hall, folding newly laundered bedsheets with another nurse, when Mary and Branson had gotten back from Ripon. Mary might have found Sybil if she'd thought to look below stairs. Tom might have found her had he not resigned himself to not doing so before he'd even started looking. Eager to hear what Mary may have told Sybil about their conversation, he didn't leave the garage all afternoon and evening, not wanting to miss Sybil if and when she was able to get away to visit him there.

He was nervous, but time moved quickly, and before he knew it, it was the dinner hour. He wasn't sure whether it was good or bad that Sybil hadn't come to the garage. They had gone longer stretches before without a chance to see one another or speak privately. He had no appetite by the time the servants' dinner was served, but he went into the servants hall anyway. If something had happened upstairs involving Sybil and Mary, he'd be sure to hear about it there.

And yet, there was no news. No talk of anything amiss. No suggestion that the afternoon or dinner had gone any way except exactly as expected.

He lingered in the hall as long as seemed reasonable, finally resigning himself to a long night and little sleep unless— _please, God!_ —she could manage to get away.

When he finally saw Sybil walking into the garage the following morning, her eyes were red from tears and sleeplessness. Tom assumed the worst.

Then, Sybil spoke.

"There was a telegram last night. Captain Crawley is gravely injured."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up right where we left off.

 

It took Tom several seconds to process what Sybil had just said. "What . . . what happened?"

"He was wounded. Seriously, it seems. He's on his way to the hospital and should arrive there today."

Tom wanted to move, to comfort Sybil, but his feet felt rooted to the spot in the garage where he stood. She too might have reached out to him but couldn't. The mutual paralysis seemed borne not just of the shock of the news, but also of an understanding that the news changed everything. Again.

"And William?"

Sybil looked up at Tom's eyes. She paused. The memory of their quarrel when he'd received his conscription letter suddenly flashing before her eyes.

_"If something happened, this isn't where I would go. If something happened, I'd be the most likely to be left on the field to die."_

"We don't know," she said quietly, looking down again. "Edith's gone to his father's farm to find out. They'd have received a telegram if . . . "

Tom nodded. After another long silent moment passed, he asked, "How is Lady Mary?"

Sybil looked up again, surprised at the question. "In shock, of course. Like we all are. She and papa will be heading to the hospital soon. I offered to let you know to be ready."

Mary, it seemed, had remained silent about their conversation the day before, and Tom wasn't sure what to make of that. If the news of Captain Crawley had come overnight, she'd still had all day to talk to Sybil.

"And you?"

"I'll go with them," Sybil said. "They can manage without me here for a while. I want to be with her when Captain Crawley arrives."

"Has she said something to you?"

Sybil's brow furrowed, assuming that Tom was speaking of Mary's feelings for Matthew. "No, but to be honest, Tom, I don't want to talk about it."

Under different circumstances, Tom might have accepted that Sybil was doing nothing but protecting the feelings of her sister, whom she loved, but in light of the intrusion into Sybil's feelings for Tom that Mary herself had attempted to make the day before, he couldn't hold back the sudden irritation he felt and the words it prompted: "Why? Because I'm the chauffeur?"

Sybil stiffened. "No, because she's my sister."

Tom laughed mirthlessly. "You're good at hiding your feelings, aren't you? All of you. Much better than we are."

"Perhaps, but we do have feelings and don't make the mistake of thinking we don't," Sybil said in a clipped manner, surprised and angry at his lack of empathy, given the news she'd just shared. "Have the car at the door in an hour," she added, turning on her heel and heading to the garage door. It was the closest thing to an employer's command she'd given him in years, and Tom immediately regretted his own words.

"Sybil, wait!"

She stopped at the door but didn't turn around. Tom walked up to her slowly and put his hand on her shoulder. She turned into his embrace, but instead of taking her fully into his arms, Tom lifted her face to look into her eyes.

"Mary confronted me yesterday about us."

Sybil's eyes widened. "What?!"

"The drive to the dressmaker was a ruse. She just wanted to talk to me about you."

Sybil stepped back. "What did she ask? What did you say? What does she know?"

"Not much. She said she knows our friendship to be inappropriate, and she asked me to stay away from you. I said very little—at least, I didn't want to outright lie. I told her to talk to you and to stay out of my affairs. I'm afraid she didn't particularly like that, but what choice did I have? We came straight home and she was out of the motor before I was. I was sure the first thing she'd do was find you. She really hasn't spoken with you about it?"

"No," Sybil replied. "I can't imagine why . . . I worked here all day. She'd likely not have looked in the servants hall, where the linens are kept, which is where I was for a good part of the day, but she said nothing at dinner. I didn't go to the drawing room, but surely she'd have followed me to my room if she wanted to speak alone, and then . . . "

"Then what?"

"It was my intention to come see you last night, but O'Brien came to wake up mama at half past one, to tell her about the telegram."

"It came _here_? At that hour?"

Sybil shook her head. "Moseley came from Crawley House the moment it arrived there. With Cousin Isobel in France, he thought papa, at least, should get the news if the worst had occurred. Luckily, it hasn't."

"So he'll live?" Tom asked.

"All we know is that his injuries are serious."

Tom pulled Sybil into his arms, fully this time, and Sybil welcomed his embrace. "I'm sorry, love. I really am."

Sybil closed her eyes as she leaned into Tom's shoulder, taking a deep breath. Finally, she said, "I should go back inside."

"Will you be all right?"

"Yes, thank you."

"What about Lady Mary?"

"I don't know. I imagine I'm the last thing she's thinking about right now."

"She's bound to come back to it eventually."

Sybil stepped away once again and looked into her husband's face. "Let's just see what today brings."

xxx

It was less than an hour later that Tom was making his way up the drive in the motor. Robert, Mary and Sybil were waiting at the door together, all of them grim-faced. None said anything on the drive to the hospital. Having been given a list of errands to run on behalf of Mr. Carson for the house, Tom left the hospital again shortly after.

Dr. Clarkson knew immediately why there were there. He'd been given the news upon his arrival that morning, and the nurses made quick work of arranging several new beds at the end of the main ward. He knew the family was likely to want privacy for the heir, but space was difficult to come by in the hospital. They could set up curtains if need be, but that was about all that was possible. For all Dr. Clarkson knew, Captain Crawley would not be at the hospital long—for good or ill.

He was not surprised to see Sybil, even though she was not due for a shift at the hospital until the next day. But he had not expected to see Lady Mary and wondered whether her being there was a good idea. He'd heard some of the local gossip about a supposed engagement between Lady Mary and Captain Crawley, but Dr. Clarkson rarely concerned himself with such things, and nothing formal had ever been announced by the family.

Before Dr. Clarkson could say anything about how things were meant to go, Robert expressed his desire to wait for the incoming wounded at the entryway. Seeing no reason to object, Dr. Clarkson nodded and then turned to see Sybil guiding Mary into the ward. Mary appeared calm, so Dr. Clarkson wondered if she'd accept his suggestion that she go back home once she saw Captain Crawley.

_Perhaps that is all she wants_ , he thought, _to see him with her own eyes_.

It didn't take long to find out. About twenty minutes after the family had arrived, the truck carrying Matthew and one other officer arrived as well. As the men, both unconscious and on stretchers, were brought down from the truck, Dr. Clarkson walked into the ward to let Sybil and Mary know.

"Right," he said. "They're here."

Sybil was quick to speak up, wanting to support Matthew as much as possible but understanding how important the chain of command was to Dr. Clarkson. "May I stay to settle him in?" she asked.

"Very well," he responded.

"I want to help, too," Mary said.

Dr. Clarkson let out a breath. This is what he had been hoping to avoid. "Lady Mary, I appreciate your good intentions," he said, "but I'm concerned that Captain Crawley's condition may be very distressing for you. Might I suggest that you hang back until the nurses have tidied him up a little?"

Mary pursed her lips slightly, and Sybil, in spite of the situation, couldn't help herself but smile slightly. Dr. Clarkson would have better luck telling the king to stand back.

"I'm not much good at hanging back, I'm afraid," Mary said, politely but resolutely. "I won't get in your way, I promise. But I will stay. You have volunteers, don't you? Well, that's what I am. A volunteer."

"All right," he replied, relenting. "Everyone to their posts!"

Already the first wounded officer was being carried in, and everyone moved to make way.

"You stand there," Sybil said to Mary, clearing a path toward the beds that had been prepared.

Dr. Clarkson guided the traffic, as the first patient was taken care of. "Yes, this gentleman's second in," he said.

That was when Matthew came into view.

Mary's heart fell as she took in his state, but she couldn't tear her eyes away either. His face was scratched, and a nasty bruise had formed over his left eye. He looked pale and thin. War had changed Matthew already. Mary could see that each time she'd seen him since he'd gone to fight. This was altogether different, however. He looked almost childlike.

"Nurse Crawley, here," Dr. Clarkson said, signaling to Sybil that she help the soldiers carrying the stretcher on which Matthew lay.

"Yes, yes," Dr. Clarkson continued, "just here, gently, gently, gently."

Sybil only looked at Matthew's face for a moment, knowing that she was here foremost as a nurse and not his cousin. Grief would have to wait.

Dr. Clarkson guided Robert away. Sybil watched them go and make the turn toward Dr. Clarkson's office. Sybil turned back to look at Mary and motioned that she come forward again. "Take him under his feet."

Mary stepped up quickly and helped lift Matthew onto the hospital bed. Sybil moved over to Matthew's left side and bent over him.

"Cousin Matthew, can you hear me?"

Matthew didn't stir. The soldier who had brought him spoke up instead. "He's breathing, but he's not been conscious since we've had him. We filled him full of morphine."

Sybil nodded. "Thank you."

As the young man made his way around her, Mary kneeled next to the bed and looked at the tag attached to Matthew's shirt.

"What does it say?" Sybil asked.

"Probable spinal damage," Mary answered, clearly worried.

Sybil couldn't help but be worried herself but said, "It could mean anything. We'll know more in the morning."

Seeing Matthew's uniform at the foot of the bed, where it had been left, Sybil moved to pick it up. As she did so, however, a small stuffed dog fell out, obviously having been tucked in between the clothes. Sybil recognized it immediately as a plaything Mary had treasured as a child.

"What's this doing here?" she asked, looking up to Mary.

"I gave it to him for luck," Mary said. "He was probably carrying it when he fell." She wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he had kept it so close. It seemed improbable and presumptuous to assume more than what she'd just said.

"If only it had worked," Mary heard Sybil say.

"He's alive, isn't he?" she said, in a tone sharper than she'd intended.

Sybil smiled, a bit sadly, realizing that Mary was right—and that Mary was prepared and resolved to be there for Matthew no matter what. It made Sybil proud and sad all at once. If only Mary had been this resolute about Matthew before the war . . .

Sybil shook that thought off and remembered herself and her task again. "I should wash him. This bit can be grim. Sometimes we have to cut off the clothes they've traveled in, and there's bound to be a lot of blood."

Mary sensed a wavering in Sybil's voice, as if Sybil still weren't sure whether Mary would see this through.

Mary's response put the unasked question to rest. "How hot should the water be?"

"Warm more than hot," Sybil replied. "And bring some towels."

Sybil watched Mary walk across the long room toward the medical stores where the nurses kept the supplies. Two nurses who were standing at the entry to the cupboard were momentarily confused by Mary's presence and turned toward the corner of the room where Sybil was with Matthew. Sybil lifted her hand to wave in acknowledgement, and the nurses immediately moved to help Mary gather what she needed. Sybil, in turn, began unbuttoning Matthew's shirt, careful not to disturb any of his injuries. His combat clothes had been removed already, so she and Mary could focus on redressing his cuts and cleaning the blood that had dried on his shirt.

"You outrank me here, it seems," Mary said as she set down the basin full of water and towels she had carried back at the foot of the bed.

Sybil smiled. "It's only because they know me."

"Do they know that you and I are the same?" Mary asked in a clipped tone.

"I just meant that they see me every day," Sybil said. "If you plan on helping Matthew while he's here, they'll get used to your presence as well. That's all."

"I'm sorry," Mary replied, sighing. "I'm just worried about him."

"I know. That's why I'm here too."

Mary looked at Sybil for a long moment. "Not the only reason. You're here for all of them."

Sybil met Mary's eyes. "I do what I can."

"I suppose it's wrong of me to say that you and I are the same."

"It is," Sybil replied, "but that's not our concern today. And anyway, we're not _that_ different."

Mary smiled, understanding that Sybil was offering an olive branch.

Sybil looked back down at Matthew and took a small set of scissors from her apron pocket to cut Matthew's undershirt. "We won't try to take it off. If he really does have spinal damage it's best not to disturb him lest we make any problem worse. So we'll focus on his chest and legs." Once she was done cutting, Sybil pushed the fabric apart to expose Matthew's chest completely. She looked up and Mary's was ready with a wet towel. Mary kneeled and carefully began scrubbing his skin. Sybil did the same, kneeling on his other side.

The sisters worked slowly, quietly for several minutes. After they were done with Matthew's chest, they carefully rolled up his trousers as far as they would go and washed Matthew's legs from the knees down. Once they were finished Sybil stood to take the basin, now full of dirty water, to dump it out.

Upon her return to Matthew's bedside, Sybil watched Mary carefully button his shirt again.

"I don't want him to be cold," Mary said quietly.

Sybil nodded and, once Mary was finished, helped Mary pull the blankets back over Matthew.

"Do you think he can hear us?" Mary asked, eyes still on Matthew.

"I don't know," Sybil said. "I'd say likely not given the morphine."

Mary looked over at Sybil. "He's proud of you."

"You don't have to say that," Sybil replied.

"But I know it to be true." Mary said. "We spoke of you when he was here last . . . for the concert."

Sybil smiled but didn't say anything.

"He spoke well of Branson, too."

Sybil's head jerked up. "Mary—"

But Mary had already turned to walk away, saying quietly as she did so, "Let's go somewhere private."

Sybil had no choice but to follow. But Mary did not know her way around the hospital the way Sybil did and after two turns was already too turned around to get them anywhere.

"Let's just go outside," Sybil said and took Mary by the arm and led her to the main doors.

Sybil let Mary's arm go as soon as they were outside and kept walking until she reached the bench at the end of the lane, not bothering to look up to see if Mary had followed her.

Mary watched Sybil walk away from her for a long moment before following her and sitting down next to her. She wasn't sure what to make of Sybil's reaction when she'd brought up Branson, but there was no avoiding the issue any longer—both sisters recognized that.

It was Mary who spoke first. "I spoke with Branson yesterday."

"I know."

"What did he tell you?"

"That you want him to stay away from me."

Mary took a deep breath. "Sybil, I know you think you love him, but—."

"Mary, please don't tell me what you _think_ you know," Sybil cut in, speaking firmly, but not raising her voice. "You don't know how I feel. You haven't known for some time."

"All right, then," Mary replied, not trying to seem as alarmed as she felt. "You're right. I don't know how you feel. But I do know what would happen if you allow yourself to be pulled away from your family, your friends, people who have supported you your whole life. Whatever Branson thinks he can given you is nothing compared with what you'd lose! Please, see reason!"

"Reason? Mary, I _hate_ this life. You may not know much about what's between Tom and I"—Mary was taken aback by Sybil's use of Tom's name, and Sybil noticed but kept going—"but I know you know _that_. I hate that I never got to got to school or university. I hate how hard it was to ask to be allowed to work. I hate that, by contrast, there are people in this world who have to work from sun up to sun down from the moment they can walk because their lives depend on it. I hate changing clothes just for the purpose of going from one room to another. I understand that there are traditions and rituals in this life we lead that mean something to you, but I am not like you! I can't abide by any of it, so do not tell me to see reason! Do not ask me to be sensible, because there is no sense in asking me to give up the man I love for a system I don't believe in!"

Sybil stood at the end of her diatribe, eager to work off the nervous energy she felt building up inside her.

Mary—feeling shocked, angry, sad and powerless all at once—watched Sybil pace in front of her. "Do you really think you love him?"

Sybil turned back to Mary, whose stern expression belied the almost timid way she spoke. Perhaps Mary was registering her skepticism, but Sybil answered as if it were an honest question. "I know I do."

Mary looked down and reflected on this for a moment. Looking up again, she asked, "How can you be sure?"

"I don't know if I can explain it," Sybil said, sitting back down on the bench. "I just know."

"But is it just the desire to lead a different life? Because there's nothing wrong with you wanting that. All I'm asking you to do is consider that there are ways of getting what you want out of life within the realm of the possible. You know there are, as well as I do. Branson is rebellion for its own sake. You don't need him to do what you want to do!"

Sybil felt tears begin to pool in her eyes. "I _know_ I don't need him to live as I choose," she said. "Is it really so hard for you to believe that I _want_ him."

"It's hard for me to believe that you'd be willing to give up so much just for him. Even harder to believe that you'd love a man who'd force you into such a choice."

Sybil stood, angry again. "I'm not giving up anything! If my family chooses to disown me because of whom I love, that's not my doing, and it certainly is not his! You may not have been willing to take a chance on Matthew, once upon a time, but I won't give up so easily."

At this, Mary rose to her feet as well. "How dare you say that to me! Today of all days!"

"I'm sorry," Sybil said, contritely, knowing the moment that she'd spoken the words that she'd let a year's worth of pent up resentment over her and Tom's necessary secrets come out in one pointed accusation.

"I may not know your heart, Sybil, but I can assure you that it's just as true that you don't know mine! "

"I'm sorry, Mary, truly. That was uncalled for. It's only that you were in love with Matthew before the war. You still are. I can see it. Why won't you let yourself act on it?"

Mary turned away from Sybil. "It's not just about my feelings, you know. How easy would the world be if I could dictate the terms by which I get to exist in it, but alas . . . I can't simply act on how I feel and pretend the other people who are affected by it don't exist."

Sybil stepped forward and put her hand on Mary's shoulder. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Do you think me selfish?"

Mary turned toward Sybil again, but said nothing, so Sybil continued, "I am not unconscious of the pain this will cause mama and papa . . . perhaps you think me inconsiderate for ignoring it, for not wanting to suffer this life alongside a man who won't understand me but who will meet with their approval?"

Mary sighed. "No. You're brave, darling. That's the difference between you and I."

Sybil's lips turned up into a small smile, and she reached out to take Mary's hand. "You're braver than you give yourself credit for."

"That may be, but that doesn't remove Miss Swire from the picture."

"What about before?"

Mary looked away again. "That's in the past now. There's no use thinking 'what if' . . . I acted a fool and now I must live with my mistakes."

Sybil's brow furrowed wondering to what exactly Mary was referring, but Mary offered no further clues or answers. The secret of Kemal Pamuk was not as tightly kept a secret as Mary believed at that moment—and soon enough, it would begin to unravel—but she felt enough shame in it still that she couldn't say more even to the sister she loved so well.

Mary took both of Sybil's hands in hers. "Just don't be rash, darling. I won't tell you not to be guided by your feelings if that's not what you want to hear, but . . . just consider where they will take you before you act."

"That's good advice, but it's for you to take, not me."

"Why do you say that?" Mary asked, feeling nervous again about what Sybil may have already done.

"If you truly want to marry Sir Richard, then do. But if your aim is to shield against an inevitable heartbreak, I'm afraid marriage to another is not the best way to do it."

"Sybil, you have your reasons for doing what you must do, and I have mine," Mary said in a serious tone. "And anyway, you know marriage less well than I do."

Sybil shook her head. "I know it better."

The sisters held one another's gaze for one long clarifying moment.

Mary understood, finally, what the truth was. And she understood that she'd always known the truth. She had avoided confronting it, once it became clear, because she had not wanted to face its consequences. She had not wanted to lose Sybil. She still didn't.

Sybil, for her part, had done all she could not to leave her family. Not to leave Mary, especially not when Mary was on the verge or marrying a man she did not love. But Mary had a choice. Mary had always had choices, and Sybil couldn't keep delaying her own life, just because she didn't agree with them.

Letting go of Mary, Sybil brought her hands to the back of her neck and unclasped the chain that held her wedding ring. She held the chain up by its end and allowed the ring to fall onto the palm of her hand.

After contemplating it for a brief moment, Sybil slipped it onto her ring finger and said, "Tom and I are married."

Mary took a deep breath to try to keep herself calm. "H-how?"

"Does it matter how?"

Mary took Sybil's hand and squeezed the ring between her fingers, wondering if the shiny piece was a figment of her imagination, if feeling it would make the union it represented more real in her mind. "I suppose not," she said finally.

There was more that Mary wanted to say, but now was not the moment. And anyway, what good would it do? Sybil was too far gone. Fighting and recrimination would happen soon enough, Mary knew. There would be no avoiding it. But on this day all she could think about was making Matthew well. The rest would have to wait. With another deep breath, Mary moved past Sybil and began to walk back toward the hospital entrance.

"Mary?" Sybil called out.

Mary stopped but did not turn around.

"You told me once you were on my side," Sybil said. "Are you still?"

Mary turned, a sheen of tears in her eyes. "Always."

Alone once again, Sybil looked down at her ring on her finger, squeezed it the same way Mary had, as if to ensure that, yes, this was real. She was a married woman.

"Tom and I are married."

She'd not said those words aloud before.

She said them again, to herself.

"Tom and I are married."

Then, she dropped the chain into her pocket and walked back to the hospital. She wasn't hiding anymore.


	14. Chapter 14

 

**May 1918**

Sybil walked back to the hospital slowly, holding her left hand in her right and fidgeting with the ring now on her finger. As she approached the front doors, she saw them open and Mary and Robert emerge from them.

Instinctively, she folded her hands in front of her, her right hand covering her left and the ring that adorned it.

"Dr. Clarkson said it would be best to head home for the day, so we're walking back," Mary said, before Sybil had a chance to say anything. "He said it's unlikely Matthew will wake before tomorrow."

Sybil nodded. "The morphine will take some time for his body to process."

"He has a long recovery ahead," Robert said. "No need to exhaust ourselves before it's necessary. Will you be coming back with us?"

Mary and Sybil exchanged a glance, and Sybil replied, "I need to speak to the head nurse before I go."

"Well, go ahead then," Mary said, starting to move away and looking to Robert to follow her.

"Will you ask if they'll assign someone to stay with Matthew?" Robert asked.

"Papa, I—"

"We'll pay for it," he said, knowing that Sybil was about to object.

With a sigh, she said, "I'll ask."

Robert nodded and fell into step with Mary. They were about thirty feet away when Mary looked back at Sybil, who was still rooted to her spot watching them go. Sybil smiled. There was a trace of a smile on Mary's face too, but more than anything she looked . . . resigned. She hadn't told their father Sybil's secret just now, obviously, but she wouldn't keep quiet forever. Sybil knew that to be true, just as she understood now that Mary was taking Robert home to give Sybil time.

Knowing now that there was little of it to waste, she went back inside and found the head nurse.

"Nurse Roberts, I wonder if I could have a word in private," Sybil asked.

Nurse Roberts raised her eyebrows in surprise, but motioned for Sybil to follow her into the supply room. Once the door was closed behind them, Sybil took a deep breath and spoke.

"I apologize for not being able to give you and Dr. Clarkson notice, but it's very likely that I'll be ending my time as a nurse here this week."

"Oh."

"I am terribly sorry about the inconvenience it will be to you. I hope you don't think I'm being cavalier about my responsibilities here, or yours."

Here Nurse Roberts smiled. "I know you too well to think that, Nurse Crawley."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you. I hope that means that what I'm about to ask is not out of order."

"And what's that?"

"I wonder if you'd be willing to write me a letter of reference."

Nurse Roberts blinked several times in disbelief. "You intend to work elsewhere?"

"I do, and beyond the war, assuming it does end eventually."

"Well, I can certainly attest to your skill as a nurse and willingness to put in the work. Only, I wonder that you wouldn't ask Dr. Clarkson, or whether there is a door my recommendation could open for you that your own position and your father's wouldn't."

"I wouldn't presume to involve you in my family's affairs, but my father won't be interested in opening any doors for me—none that lead to my continuing to work, in any case. And I don't want to put Dr. Clarkson in the odd position of recommending me against the wishes of his hospital's patrons."

"I suppose that's fair enough."

"And anyway, you've witnessed my work more closely than anyone. I should think that as a nurse yourself your word would carry weight."

"I can't promise that my word means much outside these walls, but I appreciate your faith, in any case. I'll have it for you tomorrow."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you so much. I can't tell you how much I've appreciated the opportunity to learn from you."

"You've done well, Nurse Crawley. You should be proud."

"Before I go, I should ask, on my father's behalf, if a nurse may be assigned to care for Captain Crawley exclusively. I know it's not the usual procedure, but his lordship said the family would be willing to offset the added cost."

Nurse Roberts sighed. "I'll speak to Dr. Clarkson about it. We anticipated the request, to be honest. I thought you might be interested in doing the job."

"I wish could, but . . . well, circumstances are such that . . . um . . . "

As she spoke Sybil fidgeted with her hands, by this point having forgotten there was a ring on _that_ finger, and Nurse Robert noticed.

"Is that ring what's behind all this?"

The question stopped Sybil short and she looked down at her hand. "Yes," she said quietly, looking up again.

Nurse Roberts knew that women of Sybil's position didn't marry without a fair measure of pomp. But she also knew Sybil to be responsible and sensible. She couldn't imagine the young woman having gotten herself in trouble, but even if that had been the case, the family might have sent her away or forced her to marry the man responsible in especially showy fashion to preempt scandal. No, this had the look and feel of something else altogether.

Nurse Roberts smiled. "Families are complicated, Nurse Crawley. That's true whether or not money or marriage is involved. I understand."

Sybil smiled and held her breath to keep tears from forming in her eyes. _How can she be so understanding and my family so obstinate?_ "Thank you," she managed, finally.

Minutes later she was headed back to the house with two things on her mind: telling Tom and bracing herself for leaving all the things she'd ever known.

She was almost to the house when she heard the motor come up behind her, she turned and watched, as Tom slowed to a stop a few feet from her on the road.

"What are you doing coming back?" he asked. "I was expecting you all to stay at the hospital at least a few hours."

Sybil lifted up her hand to show Tom she was wearing her ring. "It's time."

Tom's eyes widened in shock. "What? What happened?"

Sybil climbed in and sat next to Tom, not behind him. If she was going to be done with one pretense, she would be done with all of them. "Mary and I had a bit of a row, and it came out," she said as Tom started the motor again. "She and papa walked home a short time ago. She didn't tell him, but I can't ask her to carry this secret. Even if she were willing to do so for very long, it wouldn't be fair. With Matthew and Sir Richard Carlisle, she has enough to deal with. Besides, what's the purpose of waiting any longer?"

Tom's shock gave way to a smile of relief. "None, I reckon." He snuck a glance at her and held out his hand. She squeezed it before he put it back on the steering wheel. They rode in silence the rest of the way, and into the garage, absorbing the shock of the step they were finally about to take.

Once the motor had come to a full stop, they turned to one another.

"I have my suitcase packed," Sybil said. "I'll change and collect whatever else I'll need, so that I may be ready to come to the cottage tonight."

Tom chuckled. "Let's plan on the Grantham Arms. I'll not be the chauffeur by the end of the night, after all. Or we could leave this very night for Liverpool."

"No, we need to wait until tomorrow at least," Sybil replied. "Nurse Roberts said she'll give me a reference. I can't leave without that if I'm to have a hope of working as a nurse in the future."

"All right," Tom said. "I'll get us a room for tonight. When exactly do you plan on telling them?"

"I was thinking dinner, but perhaps that'll be too late. I don't want to wait longer than necessary, and what do I want with the bother of changing into my dinner clothes. So tea time, I think."

"Good. The footmen serve tea, so I can talk to Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson just before, and then come up to tell them with you. In the meantime, I'll get my things ready, get our room for tonight and send a telegram to my brother."

"Are we really ready to do this?" Sybil asked.

Tom took both of her hands in his. "We've been ready."

Sybil grinned and leaned forward to kiss him deeply. "You're right."

As she headed back into the house through the servants hall, she felt grateful for having run into Tom. Seeing him underscored her resolve to face what was to come.

Once she was in her room, Sybil went straight for her wardrobe. She pushed the dresses hanging up out of the way, revealing a small suitcase, leaning up against the back wall. She took it out and set it on her bed, running her fingers over the initials just beneath the handle: S.P.C. She laid the suitcase flat and opened it before going back to her wardrobe. She bent down to the bottom again. This time, she found a small keepsake box. Inside it, she found their marriage certificate folded up where she'd left it upon her return from Scotland now more than a year ago. Sybil held it to her chest for a brief moment, then moved to set it on her bed, next to the suitcase.

"What's going on?"

Sybil whipped around to see Mary standing at the doorway. Mary came all the way into the room, closing the door behind her.

"I'm telling mama and papa about me and Tom," Sybil said. "Unless you've already done so."

Mary pursed her lips. "You know I haven't."

Sybil looked down, but said nothing.

"It's on you to tell them, Sybil. This is your secret, not mine."

"I know that, Mary. That's why I'm telling them. Today, when everyone's gathered for tea."

"And what's all this?" Mary asked, pointing to the suitcase.

Sybil sighed. "How do _you_ think they're going to react?"

Mary smiled sadly, in spite of herself. Noticing the piece of paper, she walked over to the bed and picked it up. Sybil didn't stop her.

Mary read over the paper, then folded it and held it out for Sybil to take. "Why did you do it?"

Taking the paper, Sybil answered, "Mary, I know you mean well, but I don't know that Tom is something I can explain in a way that you can understand."

"I don't mean why Tom. I mean why did you marry in secret?"

Sybil looked down at the certificate in her hands for a moment, then looked back up and said, "Wait here," and left the room.

Minutes later, she was back with Edith in tow.

"Sybil, what's this about?" Edith asked.

"Please sit down, both of you," Sybil replied.

"Has something happened with Matthew?" Edith asked, looking back and forth between Mary and Sybil, before taking a seat on the bed next to Mary.

"No," Sybil said. "It's nothing to do with him."

"Then what? You're both making me rather nervous."

Sybil handed Edith the certificate. Edith took the paper in her hands and jumped to her feet as soon as she realized what it was. "You're married? To Branson!?"

Sybil took a deep breath, then began her tale. "Last year, when I left for York, before he left me at the college, Tom proposed. I gave him no answer then, only because I was afraid of what would happen if I did. When I was back for Christmas, that's when I accepted."

"What changed?" Edith asked.

"Nothing, really. I just stopped trying to convince myself it wasn't what I wanted, because there was no getting myself around it. It—well, _he_ —was exactly what I wanted."

"And you decided, just like that?" Edith exclaimed with alarmed. "After he sprung the question on you."

"Of course, she didn't decide, _just like that_ ," Mary said rolling her eyes. "It was a long time coming."

"Oh, and you knew all about it, did you?" Edith retorted.

"Please!" Sybil said. "Don't fight. I'm sorry to have kept you both in the dark. Edith, Mary has only known about us being married since today. She's had her suspicions about our friendship for some time, but none of that matters. Tom and I were friends almost from the moment we met, but he never overstepped with me. His proposal in York was the first time there was any sort of overt acknowledgment that there was something more than friendship. In early January of last year, around the Twelfth Night, he took some time off and we went to Scotland. Two days later I was back in York and he was back here. After that—"

"But, Sybil," Mary interrupted. "I still don't understand. You could have come to us before! We could have helped so things were done the proper way. Why did you think you needed to take such a drastic step?"

"Because you'd have tried to talk me out of it," Sybil said, simply. "And it would have worked—but only for a time. This was inevitable, I assure you. I love Tom too much to have ever been convinced to forsake him for the sake or propriety. I don't care about what scandal may come. I'm sorry for whatever heartache I will cause mama, but I will live my own life. This was the only way I could prove that I was serious."

"You don't think we'd have believed you?" Edith asked.

"Mama, papa and granny—they all expect everything to go back to normal when the war ends, and that includes me. They think my work as a nurse is a phase, but it isn't. The war didn't create my desire to work or to lead a different life. It merely compelled me to act on the desire. Forgive me for not including you in the decision, but again . . . it's mine to make."

"And you made it," Mary said, standing up.

Sybil nodded. "I did."

"Why now?" Edith asked. "After all this time keeping it a secret."

"At first, I wanted the experience of being a nurse, and this was the only way I could get it. After a while, I wanted to have him and you both. But the secret can't remain so forever. I don't want it to."

"You didn't think any of that that was possible out in the open?" Mary asked. "Do you have such little faith in us?"

Sybil took a deep breath, and smiled sadly. "I have all the faith in the world in you. That's why I didn't ask permission. Because I knew I could ask forgiveness."

Mary let out a chortle of in spite of herself, surprising both of her sisters in the process. Looking back at Sybil, she said, "Will you keep in touch?"

Sybil smiled, this time genuinely. "What do you think?"

Mary took a step toward Sybil, and Sybil met her halfway in a hug. Pulling away, Sybil stepped to Edith, who hugged her tightly as well. "I can't believe you're leaving us." Stepping back, Edith added, "Wait, but what about mama and papa? When are you telling them?"

"Tonight," Sybil answered.

"Will you be having luncheon?" Mary asked.

Sybil shook her head.

"Very well, then," Mary said. "We'll leave you to it."

Edith hugged her younger sister one more time before heading toward the door behind Mary.

Sybil looked around her empty room, which suddenly felt very different. Seeing that there was little left for her to pack, she went to her bathroom to draw herself a hot bath. This was a luxury she wouldn't enjoy again any time soon, and she needed all the serenity that only time alone to think could bring her.

xxx

In the end, the confrontation went about as well as Sybil and Tom had expected, which is to say that it was a confrontation. The moment Tom stepped into the library, where tea had been served, not wearing his usual livery, everyone sensed there was something amiss. Sybil went to him immediately. She looked into his eyes for a long moment, found comfort it their blue depths, then turned around and saw shock and recognition fill her family's eyes as she slipped her hand into Tom's.

"I have some news," was how she began.

There was fighting. There was yelling. There were tears.

When Sybil offered the certificate to her irate father, he threatened to tear it up right then and there, convinced it would hold no weight in court.

"Contesting it won't make a bit of difference," Sybil had retorted, "The fact of the matter is I am Tom's wife."

Sybil's implication regarding the physical act that made her Tom's wife in fact, if not by law, was not lost on her father, who took a menacing step toward her before Tom stopped in between them and Violet made herself heard by rapping her cane sharply against the floor.

"Enough of this!"

Robert stepped back and let out a long breath, but the anger was still evident in his face.

"Tell me, dear," Violet said, turning to Sybil. "What's your plan? And why have you kept this from us for so long?"

"Mama—" Robert tried to cut in, but Violet raised her hand to keep him quiet.

"Thank you, granny. We want to go to Ireland, but I wanted to have experience working as a nurse, and working at the hospital here was my only chance. We didn't tell you because we didn't think you'd let Tom keep _his_ job after you knew."

"You got that bit right," Robert said.

Tom and Sybil looked at each other.

"I've packed my things," Tom said. "We'll be staying at the Grantham Arms until it's time to leave for Ireland."

"We?" Cora said. "What do you mean _we_?"

"Both of us," Sybil said. "We're married. Now that you know, there's no reason to keep up the pretense that we're not husband and wife."

"You cannot stay at the Grantham Arms," Cora said, tears welling in her eyes.

"Will you let us stay here, then?" Sybil asked, looking around the room. When her eyes landed on her mother again, she sighed. "Mama, we've done nothing wrong, nothing untoward. Any family friends we have who will offer judgment over my having chosen my own husband are not friends of mine. I'm sorry that you feel disappointed in me, but this is who I am, and I am your daughter."

Cora looked away, knowing that in her disappointment she was disappointing Sybil.

"Branson will stay at my house."

A chorus of "What?" filled the room and everyone turned once again toward Violet.

"This marriage is a fact," Violet continued. "It can't be undone, so we must make it right."

"Mama?"

"What choice do we have, Robert? I do not wish for Sybil to be cast out of society, and regardless of how angry you may be at this moment, you do not wish it either. We'll mark the occasion of the union tomorrow. If anyone asks why it was done so quietly, we'll say we didn't want to disturb the men convalescing here."

"Nobody will believe that," Robert said with a roll of his eyes.

"I doesn't matter what people believe," Violet replied. "All that matters is what we tell them."

"She's right, Robert," Cora said, standing up and setting down her saucer and cup. "And that's all that needs to be said about it." Without looking at anyone, Cora walked out of the room. Robert followed her, but not without throwing Tom another glare on his way out. Sybil felt a lump form in her throat. She had deliberately lied to her parents and though she didn't regret being with Tom, she felt the weight of her guilt for the first time. Turning to look at her grandmother, Sybil also felt a measure of relief.

Later, Tom would express a great deal of shock that it was Violet who saved them, but Sybil was less surprised.

In the moment, Sybil stepped up to Violet and said, "Thank you, granny. I don't know what to say."

"Say you won't do it again," Violet answered, with her usual dryness.

Sybil launched herself at her grandmother, who was taken aback by the show of affection. After stepping away, Sybil looked back at Tom.

"It means a lot," he said to Violet. "Thank you."

"I should warn you that I don't like house guests." And with that she sat back down and picked up her saucer, quite as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Mary and Edith followed suit, and Tom and Sybil joined hands and stepped out of the room.

"Can it really have been that easy?" Tom asked as they walked toward the stairs.

Sybil laughed. "You call that easy?

Tom stopped in the middle of Downtown Abbey's main hall and took his wife's hands into his. "How do you feel?"

Sybil looked all around her. It seemed as if the room were spinning around her. She took Tom's face into her hands and gave him a long kiss. When she pulled away, she said, "Happy . . . and happily married."

"Me too."

 

**June 1918**

_Sybil closes her eyes and feels the early morning mist over the Irish Sea dampen her face. Tom has gone to find the loo, leaving her here at the bow of the small ship carrying them to what will be her new home._

_She is happy to have this moment alone to consider the adventure before her._

_Yesterday, she said goodbye to her family, not knowing when she would see them again. The sadness she felt took her aback, and that night, in a hotel in Liverpool, she clung to Tom as they made love with a desperation that she had never felt before._

_The revelation of her marriage created rifts between her and both of her parents that would take longer than a mere four weeks to heal, but at the end of those four weeks, Sybil felt sure that they would heal. So it was with genuine sadness that Sybil left them behind. But leave she did. She had to. There was too much of this world to see. Too much life to be lived._

_She feels Tom's hands come around her waist and shivers as she turns into his embrace._

_"Are you cold?" he asks._

_"No," she says, smiling. "Just excited."_

**_THE END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the flashbacks were all in present tense, I thought it would be fun with the same style in a flash forward. I hope that you all found this resolution satisfying. Please let me know what you think whether you loved it or totally didn't. I apologize if the final seems feels a bit truncated. I didn't want to keep rehashing the same fight, so I made the choice to jump over the actual revelation (which in my mind happens in more or less the same way it happened on the show) to the resolution. After so much hiding for these two, I just wanted them to get on with things, I guess. Anyway, thanks again for reading and supporting this story!


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